


Earth and Water

by Rector



Series: Bricks and Mortar [2]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Drama, F/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 99,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13138947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rector/pseuds/Rector
Summary: For a long time, I was asked to write a Greg Lestrade story, so I did. However, these stories take on a life of their own and often refuse to stop writing themselves. This is the second half of one such narrative.





	1. June

**Author's Note:**

> This is Part II of Bricks and Mortar. I strongly recommend you read that before you read this, otherwise a great many things will make no sense.

"Oh, darling, it's beautiful on you," Gwendoline stood back and watched as Freddy turned in a slow pirouette, the antique wedding gown brushing the floor around her. In exquisitely embroidered ivory satin with seed pearls and Belgian lace, it was something of a family heirloom, originally worn by a great-great-something-grandmother, though nobody seemed sure which one. Gwendoline only knew it came from her maternal line; nearly all the women on the distaff side were petite and the dress fitted her daughter as if it had been made for her.

Staring at her reflection in the long cheval mirror in Greg's master suite, Freddy took a slow deep breath. It was a splendid dress indeed, with yard upon yard of fragile, handmade lace, the entire ensemble marked in fact, by the sheer exuberance of the stuff. It was the dress her grandmother had worn, her mother had worn and her younger sister had worn as well. It was a long-standing tradition to wear The Dress. Every new bride in the family in living memory had worn the damn dress. And she hated it.

"It's just not me, Mummy," Freddy lifted the edge of the lacy veil carefully away from her side. "It's all terribly pretty, but I'm simply not ..." she shook her head. "I've never been the frilly type, have I?"

Mentally holding the glorious picture before her for just a moment longer, Gwendoline sighed. "No, my darling child, you never have." She shrugged. "So the dress is not for you, oh well." A fatalistic expression on her face, the older woman began the task of removing the acres of lace. "You never know. Perhaps your daughter might wear it one day."

Struggling to undo the tiny pearl buttons down the back of the fitted silk bodice, Freddy laughed. "I rather think that ship may have sailed," she said, starting on the row of buttons down a long lacy cuff.

"Nonsense, my dear," Gwendoline folded the lace veil into a careful pile, wrapping it into black tissue. "You're only thirty-seven. I didn't have Margot until I was forty-five, there's time for you yet."

Finally freeing herself from the clinging gown, Freddy laughed again. "Well, don't tell Greg that," she smiled at the idea. "I think he's being terribly brave agreeing to another wedding after his previous experience; he might feel a bit too old for a young family on top of that."

"Your own father was older than your fiancé is now when both your sisters were conceived," Gwendoline stopped what she was doing and leaned in a little closer. "And Gregory doesn't seem to be lacking in any physical sense," she whispered, a wickedly knowing smile on her face. "You're a very fortunate girl."

" _Mother_ ," Freddy swivelled and glared. "Let's not discuss Greg's bits, if you don't mind. It's not ... polite."

"I really don't know where you get this puritanism from," Gwendoline sighed matter-of-factly as she finished folding and laying the ivory gown out in the long cardboard box, wrapping the black tissue paper until it covered everything. "Your father and I enjoyed a very active love-life right up until he died. He was a most romantic and imaginative sexual partner."

"God, _Mummy!_ " Freddy covered her eyes, trying to avoid certain mental images. "Change the subject, please."

"Well then, if you don't want to wear the family wedding gown, what do you plan on wearing?" the older woman folded down the long flaps of the box, sealing away the satin and lace for another generation. "It may be a small church wedding, but you can anticipate a number of people there from both our side and Gregory's side who will expect us to put on a good showing," she said tight-lipped, watching as her eldest child shimmied into a pair of old jeans. "And I may be old and out of touch, but I'm not so old that I've forgotten what stylish looks like. Are you even going to wear white?"

"Don't be such a silly old thing," Freddy gave her mother a hug. "I still plan on wearing a nice dress, just something that's a bit more modern and a lot less fussy," she said. "There are some lovely dress shops in town and _of course_ I shall want your opinion."

Fractionally mollified, Gwendoline Kerr made a silent promise that her eldest daughter was not going to let the side down when it came to the family reputation. One way or another, Freddy would walk down St. Mary's aisle wearing something of great distinction.

###

"So that's the way of it," Greg shrugged as he sipped his coffee. "Freddy's mum is going to be giving her away, which means any traditional formality goes out the window. This being the case, I'd really like you to be my Best Man. _Friend_. Best Person."

"You're mad, you know that?" Sally Donovan smiled as she shook her head, toying with her hazelnut biscotti. "There's half a dozen guys who'd happily stand up with you at your wedding."

"Maybe so," Greg stole her untouched second pastry and crunched it victoriously. "But you're my best mate at the Yard and as far as I'm concerned, it's either going to be you or I thought, maybe John Watson and I wanted it to be you."

"Oh god," Sally slumped back into her seat. "Does that mean you're going to invite Sherlock as well as John?"

"He may not come," Greg looked thoughtful. "Sherlock's been pretty quiet since that thing with his sister, especially now since John's moved back in to Baker Street with his little girl."

"But you are going to invite them?" Sally prodded.

"Yes, of course I am," Greg frowned. "Whatever else they might be, they're my friends," he paused, narrowing his eyes. "Kind of."

"So you want me to be your Best Person," Donovan grinned. "Does this mean I've got to organise your stag do and then shepherd you home when you're legless?"

"I'm not really interested in a stag party, truth be told. Much rather we all got together and had dinner or something. Somewhere nice."

"Showing your age, boss," Sally swigged back the last of her coffee. "Damaging the Yard's reputation. You know some of the blokes are going to want to see you plastered, naked and handcuffed to a street light by midnight."

"And they can keep on bloody wanting, as far as I'm concerned," Greg wrinkled his nose. "My big drinking days are behind me and I've got no intention of ending up with a blinding hangover a matter of hours before my own wedding," he shook his head. "Far more civilised to have a dinner ... let's call it a 'pre-nuptial dinner," he laughed. "I want everyone to meet Freddy and her mother and more importantly, I want Freddy to meet you lot, mad bastards that you all are. My future wife needs to know what she's getting into and I'd far rather she met everyone _before_ the wedding than after, just in case."

"In case we frighten her off?" Sally scoffed.

Greg raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"You can't be serious?"

"Freddy's family come from some fairly rarefied stock," Greg fiddled with his teaspoon. "Cathy never got on with anyone at the Yard ... I just want to be sure that Freddy doesn't have the same kind of experience," he shrugged. "The lads can be a bit overwhelming, you know."

"I hope you're not expecting everyone to be on their best behaviour at your stag bash," Donovan leaned back in her seat. "Cos' you know that idea's going to go down like a lead balloon."

"It's just that," Greg folded his arms and looked uncomfortable. "I still wonder if it was my job that drove Cathy away, at least in part," he looked down at the spoon. "I don't want that to happen this time, is all."

"Your ex-wife is a class-A ratbag who was determined not to get on with anyone just to spite you," Sally paused thoughtfully. "From the little I know of Freddy and her mother, they're cut from entirely different cloth. I think you might be surprised, I really do. Don't underestimate either of them. Seriously."

"Does this mean you'll be my offsider at the church?" Greg looked up, a hopeful light in his eyes.

"Yeah, it does," Sally Donovan grinned. "And god help you."

###

"' _Offers ample space to maximise your lifestyle requirements_ ' _._ I had no idea the English language could be contorted into such obsfuscative expressions." Greg poured Gwendoline a cup of tea as they sat at the kitchen table on the ground floor of the Pimlico house. The kitchen that would soon be her own. "This brochure from the estate agent is little short of gobbledygook."

"It's how they sell houses these days," Freddy smiled up at Greg as he handed her a cup. "People read between the lines."

"But houses in Harrow-on-the-Hill tend to be bought by locals," Gwendoline still sounded uncomfortable. "What if they think I'm trying to inflate the value through all this nonsense?" She waved the offending paper in the air. "I'd be mortified."

"Gwennie, don't worry about it," Greg patted the back of her hand. "Just let the estate agent do his job and think about how you want to invest the profit from the sale once it's all settled."

"Only after your garden is complete, my dear," Gwendoline smiled fondly. "You've both been more than generous to invite me to live here, rent-free for as long as I want and I won't rest until I know you have the garden you've always dreamed of having."

"But Mummy, I really don't want you spending all your money on this." It was Freddy's turn to sound uncomfortable. "If you want to chip in for a few feature trees, that would be lovely and very much appreciated, but neither of us want you to spend your money like that. Keep it; you're going to be around for a long time yet and you'll want your own funds to covers expenses for holidays and the like."

"Now, Frederica," her mother raised both eyebrows and stared at her over the rim of her teacup. "You _know_ paying for the garden was my one condition before agreeing to come and live in this lovely house with you. And besides," Gwendoline nodded at the agent's sales brochure in the middle of the table between them. "If the Harrow house realises the sum the agent has advised me it might, then I'll have ample financial wherewithal even after I've covered the cost of my wedding present to you both."

Realising the two women could keep this conversation going for days; Greg lifted the brochure for a closer look. The old Kerr house had been photographed from a number of advantageous external angles and there were quite a few interesting internal shots too. There was a URL for the agency website which offered more images as well as a video walk-through of the house. It might be worth having a look. There was no actual price listed on the brochure, only the words 'Price upon application'. That usually meant the asking price was going to be pretty steep and the agent didn't want to put people off before they'd had a chance to see the place. He shrugged. He knew the vagaries of house-buying all too well and thanked his stars once again that he'd followed Mike Stamford's suggestion of meeting up with Freddy to discuss refurbishing the Pimlico property. It was turning into a wonderfully appointed period building, improving with every little thing they did to it. On top of that, he and Freddy were now in a _defacto_ relationship, with the wedding mere weeks away. On top of _that_ , he was madly in love with a woman who came from a different world but who gave every appearance of being madly in love with him as well. Even thinking about it made his heart beat a little faster.

The only thing that was still missing from this wonderful picture, other than a resident in the top floor apartment, was Freddy's garden. It was something Greg had been determined to resolve somehow, but then Gwendoline came to the party with her offer to pay for the lot. Not that he had any intention of allowing Freddy's mum to do any such thing, but there would be time to set things straight after she'd sold the ancient dump of a place out at Harrow and was living with them in relative peace and comfort. Plenty of time then to squabble over the details and he was confident of his powers of persuasion.

He sighed inwardly. There seemed to be so much to do. Getting the upper floor of the house finished and ready for sale; helping Gwen with the sale of her house in Harrow and her subsequent removal down to Pimlico. Then there was Freddy's big garden to work on, after which they'd put the top floor apartment on the market. His new job was pressing him in different ways too; there was a lot more management of people and resources at the DCI level, and it wasn't just Met insiders who had calls on his time these days. On top of everything else, there was the wedding in a matter of weeks _and_ the honeymoon. They'd still not been able to agree to actually have a honeymoon, let alone been able to decide on where to have it should one eventuate.

When he and Cath had married, way back in the dark ages, they'd spent a fortnight down in Cornwall, though she'd really wanted to go to Greece. If he'd had the money to pay for it, Greg would have been thrilled to accommodate her, but as he'd not long been at the Met and she was only working part-time in a local dress shop while studying for her teaching qualification. Greece, no matter how desirable, had been way beyond their combined fortunes, especially as they had decided to save every penny for a deposit on their first small house. Though the situation was entirely different this time with Freddy, Greg still remembered the arguments he'd had with Cath and so was reluctant to push anything lest history repeat itself. Truth be told, he'd be excited to simply stay in Pimlico to enjoy a few days relaxing in their newly refurbished home and maybe doing some touristy things together.

"Don't you agree, Gregory?" Gwendoline was looking at him with a questioning expression.

"Sorry, what?" Greg waved the brochure in his hand. "Got carried away with my own thoughts," he smiled. "What was the question?"

"I was suggesting to my daughter that if my house sells for the amount projected by the estate agency, then I can easily put aside one hundred-thousand which should be sufficient to get the garden project underway."

 _Christ. A hundred grand for a garden_. Greg inhaled softly. It was a hellish amount of money for plants. It also begged the question ... "Can I be rude and ask how much they think they can sell your place for?"

"The very pleasant Mr Markham from the Harrow and London Property Sales office, suggested that a sum in the region of one-point-two million would be appropriate for the house and associated land included in the sale. I confess, I was somewhat startled at the amount, but was assured that this is now the going rate for properties with large gardens in the area." Gwendoline sounded as if the amount under discussion was of little interest, which, Greg suddenly realised, was probably the truth. Neither Freddy nor her mother were impressed by money, it was simply something that made other things possible. If they had to live without it, they would and had. Having a bundle of cash was, in itself, of little importance. He smiled again; what a family. Sally was probably right, he'd no need of worrying how Freddy would handle the Yarders; she'd take everyone right in her stride.

"You're smiling at me," Freddy smiled back, his fatuous expression automatically triggering her pleased response. "Are you feeling especially happy about something?"

"Only about you, my love," Greg lifted the nearer of Freddy's hands and planted a big kiss on the back of it. Gwendoline sipped her tea and said nothing, but the corner of her mouth curved upwards.

"And what about me?" Freddy squeezed his fingers. "There was something else going through your head, I could see it. What was it?"

Squinting one eye closed, Greg rubbed the ball of his thumb over the place where he'd laid the kiss. "I was thinking about where we might go for our honeymoon," he grinned. "Though we've got so many things on the go, maybe we should postpone it for a year."

"That's a simply appalling notion, Gregory," Gwendoline put her cup down with a _clink_. "You absolutely _must_ take a few days at least to get used to the idea of everything being formal and legal between the two of you. Carrying on as if nothing important has just happened is a terrible waste of an opportunity to cement your relationship. Of course you need to think about going away together, even if it's only briefly."

"Thank you for your opinion, Mummy," Freddy threw her mother an exasperated look. "But Greg and I are perfectly capable of organising our lives at this point."

"Yeah, but maybe your mum's right," Greg raised Freddy's hand to his mouth again so he could nibble her finger. "It sort of marks a milestone for us, don't you think?"

"But there's so much to _do_ ..." Freddy looked pained.

"And it will still be there when we come back," Greg smiled down at her. "Don't you want to get away somewhere and be all romantic with me?"

"That's not the issue, and you know it," Freddy gave him a mild glare. "I was actually thinking about all the things you're having to cope with in the new job," she added. "And neither of us can afford to be out of the country for long because of all the other things going on." Rolling her eyes towards her mother, Greg realised exactly what was being said. They would both have to be onsite once the Harrow house was sold and Gwen's things needed to be moved to Pimlico.

"At the risk of both of you biting my head off, how would a few days in Scotland suit?" Gwendoline rested her linked fingers on the table. "We have cousins in Kelso, near the River Tweed," she paused, raising her eyebrows at the pair of them. "There are all manner of summer cottages for rent up there. I'm sure they could arrange something for you if you felt so inclined."

"It would be nice, don't you think?" Greg was grinning. "A few romantic days and nights in Scotland; long walks by the river, that sort of thing? What do you think?"

Freddy smiled back, unable to resist the happiness of the man at her side. "Yes, actually, a few days in Scotland does sound rather pleasant. I could do some fly-fishing."

"You fish?" Greg was surprised, though he had no idea why. It just seemed so unlike her.

"I have done, yes," Freddy brushed a hair from her face. "The Tweed has some superb salmon runs. It would be enjoyable to get the waders on for a few days."

"Then you can teach me," Greg kissed the palm of her hand this time. "I've always wanted to try fly-fishing but never had the chance." He smiled widely across the table. "That's settled then," he said, smiling broadly at both women. "Scotland it is."

###

Gwendoline's letter from Stevens & Co. arrived without warning or fanfare. Founded in 1906 by William Stevens, Magistrate, it was now a large law firm with offices in Central London, close to Chancery Lane and the Royal Courts of Justice. Stevens & Co. also happened to be the erstwhile employer of one Alex Harper. Apparently, Harper's highly precipitous and unforeseen departure from the firm had left the remaining partners holding quite a number of accounts without any real idea of what was going on with the clients. To this end, Stevens & Co. were taking steps to contact everyone on Harper's current client list to assure one and all that one rotten apple did not, in this particular instance, taint the barrel. In hindsight therefore, the arrival of Gwendoline's letter was not remotely surprising.

However, the arrival of Freddy's letter was.

"What on earth are they writing to me for?" she asked her mother as she ripped open the envelope's seal. "I've never conducted any business with them and the only connection I had was an indirect one, through Alex."

"What does the letter say, dear?" Gwendoline was still immersed in her own, frowning down over her reading glasses at the closely typed page. When there was no forthcoming response, she glanced at her daughter's face. "Goodness, Freddy," Gwendoline laid the page down. "What on earth is the matter?"

"It's ..." Freddy had paled. "It's ... Apparently, there's a box of documents in Alex's office all about me and about the Apley legacy," she blinked again. "They want to know when I can come and discuss the situation with them," Freddy paused, wrinkling her forehead. "What situation?"

"I recall your father having some legal dealings regarding the Apley title and inheritance a long time ago," Gwendoline frowned as she tried to remember. "Though it certainly wasn't with Alex at Stevens ... your father would have told me."

"It wouldn't have been with a firm called Hunters, would it?" Freddy sounded hesitant. It was the name of the legal firm whose letters her father had kept hidden.

"Now that you mention it, you know I think you might be right," her mother smiled slightly. "Though it was a great many years ago," she paused thoughtfully. "Nothing came of it, as I recall."

Freddy's memory jolted her back to the day when Alex Harper had shot her, a day when she'd accidentally discovered her father's old legal papers in an ancient tin trunk in the attic, papers that Alex had been after for years. Papers outlining her father's legally arguable right to claim the title of the Earl of Apley. Papers that Alex Harper, her unknown cousin, had been desperate to get his hands on. A cold shiver rippled down her back and she took a deep breath at unwanted memories.

"Then I suppose I'd better go and talk to them, see why they want to speak with me about this particular matter." Freddy would far rather have dropped the entire affair and had so far managed to put the issue entirely out of her mind up to now. But the letter meant she no longer had the luxury of such self-indulgence. She'd have to go and face the situation, whatever it might be. Greg would probably find the whole thing too uncomfortable to endure; his memories of that terrible day were, in some ways, worse than her own. "Don't say anything to Greg about this just yet, will you, Mummy?" Freddy folded the letter back into the envelope. "You know how he worries about me being upset."

"Are you quite sure you wouldn't be better asking him to go along with you?" Gwendoline sounded concerned. "Better to have everything out in the open, surely?"

"Of course, but if there's nothing for me to do except collect a box of old papers, I'd hate to waste Greg's time by asking him to accompany me," Freddy sighed. "He works so hard sometimes."

"Yes, that he does," her mother nodded understandingly. "I'm sure you'll tell him everything when you have all the details, won't you darling? It's not a good idea to begin a marriage with secrets."

"Greg _is_ a detective, Mummy," Freddy smiled happily at a passing memory. "A Chief Inspector, no less. I'd be hard pressed to keep any major secrets from him, don't you think?"

"Yes my love, but whatever else he might be, your Gregory is still only a man, and a man in love, to boot," Gwendoline arched her eyebrows sagely. "There's none so blind as those who will not see."

Tucking the envelope in her back pocket, Freddy grinned. "How would you like to come and look at some wedding dresses with me this afternoon?" she asked cheerfully. "There's two nice little shops not five minutes from here."

"A splendid idea. I shall just go and powder my nose." Gwendoline tucked her reading glasses back into their case and headed for the bathroom, Freddy's letter all but forgotten.

###

Greg had taken a long lunch for a specific reason. There was a jewellery shop, not far from the Charles Dicken's museum, where he had an appointment. He'd been there twice before, once to see if they could do what he wanted and a second time with his own sketches to show them what he'd got in mind. A complete set of professional designs had been emailed to him the following week for his approval. Today was the day he was to collect the finished article; Freddy's wedding present.

He'd known for a long time what he'd wanted to get her for a present and had spent more time than he could realistically afford browsing jeweller's shops around inner London. When it became clear that nobody was selling what he had in mind, he determined to find a place that could make it for him. Hopefully, he'd been able to explain his idea clearly enough. He'd soon see. There was a nervous flutter in his stomach as he walked into the understated shop in Northington Street.

"Ah. Inspector Lestrade, right on time," a tall, fine-boned woman of middle years smiled at him from behind a glass counter where she was busy polishing a platinum bangle. Putting the bracelet away, she raised a finger. "Just one moment." Disappearing through an open doorway at the rear of the shop, Greg had time to look around at the muted soft grey carpets and modern Swedish furniture that characterised the place. He'd not been sure this had even been the right place until he'd met Jessica and seen her drawings.

"I believe this is what you had in mind for your fiancée," Jessica returned carrying a small oval case which she placed on top of the shining glass countertop. "It's was immense fun to make something this creative for once," the woman smiled; genuinely pleased at the opportunity to display her skills beyond the standard rings and necklaces that people seemed to want. This commission had been a real pleasure to undertake. Taking out the handmade bracelet, she laid it out carefully on a pale grey velvet mat for her client to see.

Greg felt his heart leap inside his chest as he saw the finished result of a great deal of thinking. He'd wanted something that Freddy wouldn't already have, in jewellery terms. A different kind of wedding gift than the usual diamond earrings. He also wanted something that she could wear during the day rather than just at night, as well as something that reflected both his feelings towards her and her own inclinations. The bracelet glinting on the velvet in front of him was the end result. And it took his breath away. Fashioned in the form of interlocking leaves of ivy, the delicate, three-dimensional enamelled cloisonné was cleverly embellished with slivers of dark green emerald and what looked like pearls.

"As agreed," Jessica the jeweller pointed with a fingertip. "Some of the leaves are enamelled copper, some are enamel on white gold and a couple of the smaller ones are enamelled yellow gold," she said, pointing them out as she spoke. "I used very small greeny-yellow pearls for the ivy flowers, and the underlying framework, links, closure and safety chain are all yellow gold," she added, looking up at Greg's raptured face and smiling again. "As you can see," she continued, lifting the bracelet deftly into the air." Each linked ivy leaf hangs independently of those on either side, which means the bracelet won't break or snap with any sharp movement, but will follow the wearer's actions with a very natural flow." The woman turned her creation over in her fingers. "The different metal used in the various leaves are obvious from this side," she said. "However, the gold will never tarnish, and I've added a thin, clear enamel glaze to all the copper-based leaves to ensure the wearer's skin remains unmarked. The bracelet can be worn with either side facing outwards, depending on the wearer's mood and outfit." Jessica demonstrated this as she laid the exquisite piece of the jeweller's art across Greg's palm. "I believe this is what you wanted, yes?"

His heart still beating hard in his chest, Greg drew in a long deep breath as he dangled the dainty thing in his fingers and nodded. "It's gorgeous," he agreed. "Freddy will love it."

"If at any time any of the links weaken or break, or if any of the leaves are damaged, just bring the bracelet back to me and I'll repair it at no further cost," Jessica nodded, clearly pleased by Greg's reaction. "This is a unique piece and your wife will not see anything like this elsewhere, I promise."

"It's absolutely perfect," Greg couldn't take his eyes of the bracelet. "It's exactly how I wanted it to be."

Pulling out his wallet and VISA card, Greg watched as the jeweller fastened the bracelet back into the oval velvet case. He'd never been in a position to commission a piece of jewellery before and he'd worried at his choice. Now, however, he knew his instinct had been spot on. He only wondered how long it would be before he was back, asking for the earrings to match. He smiled a private smile.


	2. Chapter 2

'The Lady Bernadette' was a shop that sold wedding finery, conveniently located within a five-minute walk of the Pimlico house. It was one of two Freddy had spotted in the immediate area, preferring to buy local if at all possible, rather than visit one of the glitzy, bigger-named shops in the centre of town. As wedding-dress shops went, this one was barely a blip on the radar, little more than a small glass-windowed front on Moreton Street. One look into that window however, and Freddy saw only glitter and lace, something she was rather desperate to avoid after having already turned down the Dress of Ages. What she saw herself in was something plain to the point of starkness, something with clean lines and an absolute minimum of decoration.

"Oh well," she turned to her mother who was examining the prices with a scandalised eye. "Maybe the next one might be more my style," she said. "But if not, we can always make a trip into town and see what some of the bigger places have to offer."

"But the _prices_ ," Gwendoline shook her head, a frown wrinkling her forehead. "Just for the _dress_."

"Another reason for me to look for something as simple as I can get," Freddy took a deep breath and nodded her agreement. "I have no desire to blow the budget on a frock for one day's wear."

"Though it is your _wedding_ , my dear," her mother placated. "Even if the price might be a bit of a shock, a white wedding is not usually an occasion you'll have more than one of, so don't be too hasty to dismiss things straight away. There may be an opportunity to negotiate the price, especially as this is something of a high profile wedding."

Freddy rolled her eyes. Her mother was determined to make the occasion as grand as possible, when all she and Greg really wanted was a quiet little ceremony with a few close friends and colleagues. If anything, this made her all the more determined to keep things unpretentious, beginning with her outfit. Of course she wanted something nice and pretty to wear, especially given that her usual garb until recently had either been her utilitarian gardening gear or a much-washed lab coat. But there was pretty and then there was _pretty_ , and she was fairly sure which one she wanted.

Their slow walk had taken them around the corner and down another semi-busy street where Freddy remembered the second local dress shop had been. Maybe if she couldn't find something ready-made, she could buy a basic pattern and pay a local dressmaker to run up a frock for her. The second shop approached and Freddy held her breath. If this one was also filled with white netting and diamanté tiaras, she was turning around and heading home in disgust.

"Oh, how lovely," Gwendoline stopped in front of the main window and stared up at the central dress on display, in simple white satin, it was along-sleeved, slightly crinolined affair. "I recall the young Princess Margaret wearing something along similar lines," she added, taking in the details. "Though perhaps this might be somewhat spartan for a wedding gown for you."

Freddy wouldn't have called the dress 'spartan' and she'd no idea what Princess Margaret's gown had been like, but the dress in the window did seem to be free of frilly bits or layers of bouffant white gauze. If this was a typical offering of the shop, it at least held promise. "Let's have a look inside while we're here, shall we?" Her hand was already on the handle, opening the door with a faint tinkling of an old bell above her head.

A woman in her early twenties stuck her head around a corner and smiled. "Won't be a tick," she called. "Just have a browse around while I put these Juliette caps away."

"She's a little young to have much experience in the business, wouldn't you say?" Gwendoline murmured as she walked across to the window to get a better look at the central display.

"How can I help you?" the sales assistant smiled cheerfully, looking between the two potential customers, uncertain whom she might need to help the most.

Ignoring her mother's muttered comment, Freddy smiled back. "I'm looking for a dress for myself," she said. "But everywhere I go, all I see are frilly hems and lace and ..." she waved her hands distractedly in the air, "fussy stuff that I simply cannot bear," she said. "I'm looking for a straightforward white dress in something very plain that I could perhaps wear with a short veil; something that's as minimal as I can get, really, that isn't for the teenaged market and will suit someone of my height and size. Am I asking too much?"

The woman laughed and shook her head. "I'm Sarah," she said. "And without being rude, you sound exactly like my mum. She really does not appreciate some of the latest fashions at all," Sarah smiled again. "She's just upstairs sorting out a new delivery of veils; I'll call her for you."

"Really, there's no need ..." Freddy's brief smile was too late as the young woman opened a door in the rear wall and called up the stairs for her mother to come down. There were vague sounds of movement on the floor above, then quiet footsteps on a stair. A second later, Sarah's mother appeared, a middle-aged version of the daughter.

"Hello," she smiled, the maternal relationship even more obvious. "Sarah likes to have me around when something a little bit special is being looked for," she said, looking unerringly at Freddy standing beside her daughter. The swift glance took in virtually all the salient points and her smile grew. "I take it you're after something fairly specific?"

Wrinkling her nose and with a faintly apologetic air, Freddy repeated her desires as Gwendoline came and stood beside her, a neutral expression shaping her features.

"What my daughter has neglected to mention is that her wedding is to a senior officer in the Metropolitan police, and that there will be a number of socially important guests attending the ceremony. I'm not saying this will be a society wedding, _but_ ..." Gwendoline spread her fingers, her expression meaningful.

Sighing, Freddy bit back a response. She really would have to have a talk with her mother about this. It was going to be quiet country wedding and nothing more. "My mother would like me to wear something ostentatious and grand," she knew she sounded frosty. "However," she turned, giving her mother a very pointed look. "While I would like to have a stylish frock, I don't want something that depends on frills and lace to look good." Freddy turned to Sarah's mother with a hopeful look. "Is that even possible these days?"

"Of course it is," the woman smiled. "My name's Joanne and I've been in the dressmaking industry for thirty years," she said, beckoning Freddy and Gwendoline into an adjacent room which held very little except several comfortable armchairs and a raised podium in the centre of the floor. The walls were covered in long mirrors and the whole room seemed bright and optimistic. "Please," she said, indicating the chairs. "Sit. Tea, I think, yes?" she said. "Any preference, ladies?"

"Earl Grey, if you have it, would be most pleasant," Gwendoline relaxed minutely. Freddy shook her head; she was in no mood for tea. "Thank you, no," she smiled, looking more closely around the room in which they sat.

"My establishment is not large," Joanne began, after her daughter had left to organise the tea. "But good style is eternal, especially in modern wedding gowns," she raised her eyebrows at Gwendoline's slight nod. "I don't keep a huge stock, but I do have a number of dresses that are classics of their type," she continued. "While some brides adore the feeling of lace and layers, there are others," she smiled at Freddy. "Like yourself, who prefer something altogether more understated," Joanne looked understanding. "I take it you'd like something on the restrained side, while, Mrs ..?" She glanced at the older woman with a questioning expression.

"Kerr," Gwendoline lifted her eyebrows. "Mrs Kerr and this is my eldest daughter Frederica, though she's always gone by the name of Freddy." Gwendoline's shrug was almost audible.

"While Mrs Kerr might opt for something a little more grand." Joanne the dressmaker clearly knew how to get her customers onside and, even more importantly, her customer's mothers.

"I had hoped Freddy might wear an antique dress that has been handed down through the family for many generations," Gwendoline tilted her head a little and gave a brief half-smile. "But it was too elaborate for her modern tastes, and so we are now looking for something else entirely."

"I understand completely," Joanne nodded thoughtfully. "I have several gowns that might do, though it's not always a simple thing to match the proper dress to the right bride," her eyes appraised Freddy's shape. "A small ten?" she asked, expertly.

"More like an eight," Freddy looked down at her perennially baggy clothing and sighed with some resignation. "I don't have much to work with, I'm afraid."

"You'll be a beautiful bride, I promise," Joanne stood. "Let's see what I can do for you, if you'd care to wait here for a few moments ..."

Sarah arrived with a pot of tea and two cups and saucers on a delicate little tray. Smiling her thanks, Gwendoline poured out two cups, handing one to Freddy who was almost visibly nervous. "Have some tea," she said. "It'll calm your thoughts."

"I've no idea why I'm suddenly feeling so jittery," Freddy took the cup even though she really wasn't thirsty. "It's only a dress."

Her mother smiled faintly. "It's not really 'only a dress', is it darling?" she asked gently. "It's a very special occasion for you and your Gregory and you want things to be perfect," Gwendoline smiled and sighed. "I still remember when I was getting ready to marry your father," she smiled again and looked down into her teacup. "It was an intensely wonderful and quite nerve-wracking time, as I recall."

There was the sound of much rustling, as both Joanne and Sarah returned, each bearing two long dress cases which they proceeded to hang up on great brass hooks situated high up, between the long mirrors.

"The first thing," Joanne linked her fingers as she walked over to where her customers were sitting. "Is to remember that finding the right dress is a process of trial and error. Don't expect to find the perfect style for you the very first time you start looking. You may need to see and try on a dozen dresses as you gradually refine your ideas as to what you really want, so you'll have to be a little patient to avoid becoming discouraged." Turning, Joanne nodded at her daughter who unzipped the first dress-case and began the task of revealing the outfit within.

"This first dress in based upon a nineteen-twenties' style," she said. "Note the simple straight lines and the dropped waist," Joanne indicated with her fingers. "Perfect for a summer wedding, this dress is made from a silk organdy with an underslip of white silk. It hangs beautifully and suits the petite figure though it can be prone to wrinkling if that's an issue you need to consider."

Sarah turned the dress around.

"As you can see, the back of the gown is almost plain, with most of the fine detail on the bodice front. The hemline is designed to end around mid-calf and is easily adjusted to suit. This style of dress is most often accompanied with a white headband with either a small spray of white orchids or an amusing feather, but it also looks fantastic with a simple short veil attached to a headband."

"It's a very lovely dress," Gwendoline sipped some more tea. "Though perhaps a little too untraditional? What do you think, darling?"

"I think it has promise," Freddy rested her chin in her hand, assessing the frock. "Even if it's not strictly a traditional kind of wedding dress, at least it would be easy to wear without much fuss or bother. I quite like it, actually."

"Then that's an excellent start," Joanne smiled widely, turning to a second gown that Sarah was hanging up against the wall. "This one is even simpler, in some ways," she said. "This is a typical sheath dress that someone as slender as yourself could wear very easily. As you can see," Joanne waited for her daughter to hold the gown still. "While it conforms to the wearer's shape, it's by no means a clingy garment and is actually quite firm from the bust to the hips, acting to maintain the dress's clean-lines rather than be too snug. It's a gown designed to be worn in a church after all," Joanne smiled wickedly, "Not the bedroom."

"Looks a little bit like a nineteen-forties Hollywood _femme fatale_ ," Freddy narrowed her eyes assessingly. "Do you honestly think I could carry something like that off?"

"With your short hair and dainty figure, I think you'd be a knockout," Joanne smiled. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Have a look at the next dress first."

Right on cue, Sarah unzipped the third dress case and displayed the gown to its best advantage. Different again from its sisters, this gown was in a similarly glamorous mood, with a fitted bodice and a long, flowing skirt.

"This one is a beautiful dress, with the bodice fitted to the wearer with a kind of reversed corset lacing down the front and with the skirt itself cut on the bias, allowing the entire gown to feel both neat and yet very romantic," Joanne watched Freddy's expression carefully. "As you can see, the three-quarter sleeves are diaphanous, allowing the dress to be worn in any season," she added, lifting up a semi-transparent sleeve for a clearer view.

"Very elegant, very _chic_ ," Gwendoline offered her approval. If Freddy chose not to wear the family dress, then at least she could wear something that actually looked like a wedding dress. With a long veil, this particular gown would do very well indeed.

 _Yes_ , it was another lovely dress, Freddy conceded to herself, but it didn't really grab her. It would do, of course, but so would any of the others. She raised an apologetic face to Joanne but before she could say anything, Joanne smiled.

"I can see that it doesn't make your heart beat faster," she laughed. "Your pulse rate is often a good judge of the right wedding dress," she smiled again. "Let's see the next one, shall we?"

The final dress was unzipped slowly from its long case. Another sleeveless dress, this one had a slightly fuller skirt and a narrow panel of embroidered fabric running down the front of the gown from top to bottom. There was a very slight sparkle to it.

"This is another simple dress, with uncluttered lines yet with a small nod to the traditional in the panel of embroidery together with inset crystals that lend the entire ensemble a slightly magical feel," Joanne raised her eyebrows. "Any resonance with you at all?"

Freddy really wanted to be able to say that _yes_ , she loved the dress. Sarah and her mother had obviously thought about the kind of things she wanted and had indeed offered her some beautiful choices, but other than the first dress, the nineteen-twenties flapper style, none of them had done much for her. Maybe she needed to go to one of the bigger places in town ... "The first dress was very nice," she began.

"But you didn't really fall in love with any of them, my dear, did you?" Joanne seemed entirely unfazed. "I told you it was a trial and error, so don't worry, you'll find what you want eventually, I'm sure. However," she opened her hands," that's the limit of my plain gowns, I'm afraid. My other stock tends towards the frills and flounces."

"Apart from the Cinderella dress, of course," Sarah murmured offhandedly as she eased the dresses back into their cases. "That's a small size."

Joanne looked surprised. "Oh yes," she lifted her eyebrows. "I'd forgotten all about that one."

"The Cinderella dress?" Freddy wasn't too sure she liked the connotations but felt compelled to ask. "Made out of a pumpkin?"

Laughing, Sarah shook her head. "It's a lovely dress mum made on commission but the client vanished one evening and never came back," she shrugged. "Didn't respond to the phone messages we left or the letter we sent to the given address. We've kept it for a year and were literally about to send it off to a professional cleaner we use to dye it black and turn it into an evening gown. It's ..." Sarah paused, thinking before turning to glance at her mother. "It's actually very much the kind of thing that you were talking about. Would you like to see it?"

"But if it's been made for someone else ..?" Freddy felt uncertain of the protocol here.

"Only a deposit was left but the dress itself was never actually paid for," Joanne nibbled her bottom lip in thought. "And if the woman ever did return, which seems unlikely now, I would refund the money or I could always make her another gown in the same style," she said cheerfully.

"Well, oh, alright, if you're quite sure." Freddy turned to look at Gwendoline as Sarah disappeared back into the stockroom. "If it would be no problem."

"Here we are," Moving the dyer's consignment label to one side, Sarah hung the long black dress case up on a hook. "It's got a very particular look to it as you'll see."

Watching as the lightweight covering was unzipped and peeled away from the gown, Freddy felt the back of her neck prickle as the dress was revealed.

"It's made from pearlised silk, _peau de soie_ to be precise, which is why it drapes so divinely," Joanne looked fondly at the hanging gown. "As you can see, it has a neat little sweetheart neckline and a floor-length, draped A-line skirt with the merest hint of a train. It's really one of the simplest dresses I've ever made, though the fabric is exquisite and rather expensive. I added a narrow pearl belt to draw attention to the quality of the material, though I can always take that off, if you'd prefer?"

When Freddy made no comment, Gwendoline glanced across at her daughter's face, immediately smiling as she took note of the captivated expression. Despite her dislike of ornamentation, it seemed Freddy had a distinct _penchant_ for quality. Straight-faced and folding her hands together in her lap, Gwendoline cleared her throat. "Would it be possible for my daughter to try it on?"

"Of course," Joanne sounded thrilled as she gestured Freddy towards a wide doorway into an adjacent room. "If you'll come this way, "I'll help you dress."

Pouring herself another cup of tea, Gwendoline found it difficult to keep the smile from her lips. The expression on Freddy's face had been quite sublime. No doubt the frock would need customising, but if it was the one her daughter wanted, then let no more be said about it. Strolling around the main sales room looking at the other displays, she stopped at the sound of returning voices. Taking her seat, Gwendoline was perfectly ready to tell Freddy how pretty she looked, as all brides looked ...

A vision in white walked slowly into the room and stepped up onto the dais.

 _They'd given her a long veil_ , Gwendoline noted abstractly, softly white, and with the merest hint of cream, it flowed down to the floor from a simple pearl tiara. The entire ensemble was so effortless as to be breathtakingly striking. It was beautiful. Her daughter was beautiful. _Oh, Freddy, my darling child_ ... Reaching for her teacup. Gwendoline forced herself to swallow some tea and smile despite a painfully constricted throat and suddenly misted eyes.

"What do you think, Mummy?"

Hastily taking a second gulp of tepid tea, Gwendoline drew in a swift breath and composed herself. "It's ... _wonderful_ ," she acknowledged honestly. "I had no idea that something so unembellished would be so magnificent," she added, shaking her head and standing, walking closer. "It's superb."

"It's a little gappy at the waist, but I can take that in very easily," Joanne looked critically at her handiwork. "The length is perfect which is a relief given the work I put into the hemline. The veil looks good though, don't you think, Mrs Kerr? And the pearls are just enough to save the whole thing from being austere."

" _It's so beautiful_ ," Gwendoline brushed her fingertips against the haze of veil, realising it was a little longer than the dress at the back and that Freddy would have a small train after all. Feeling her eyes sting again, Gwendoline made no demur when Sarah offered her a box of tissues. "You look simply lovely, Freddy," she sniffed, dabbing at a stray tear.

"And the really brilliant thing is I can still have the frock dyed afterwards and use it as an evening gown for any black-tie events Greg has to attend. It's such a convenient dress!"

 _My daughter, ever the pragmatist_ , Gwendoline sighed. There was no romance in the child's soul. "Am I to take it then that you like this gown enough to buy it without needing to see any others first?"

Experimenting moving with a long veil, Freddy looked at her mother over her shoulder. "Well, what do you think?"

 _You look simply adorable and Gregory will be smitten all over again, my darling_.

"I think we should buy it," she said. "It's a wonderful dress for you."

"And considering it was actually a dress I'd virtually given up selling, I'd be happy to let you have it at cost," Joanne nodded in satisfaction at the mutually beneficial arrangement. "I still need to take the waist in a smidgen, so you'll have to leave it here for a little longer for the alterations. How soon is the wedding?"

"The end of the month," Freddy murmured dreamily as she ran the sheer length of gauzy veil through her hands. "I'll need shoes, I expect."

"That's next on the list then," Gwendoline took a deep breath. "Shoes and flowers."

###

"I already have a perfectly good grey suit," Greg put his desk phone down and peered at his sergeant through apprehensive eyes. "I've worn it to weddings before, so I _know_ it's okay," he added, leaning back in his chair, chewing on a pen. He had no intention of spending cash on new gear for himself until the house was entirely finished and Freddy had her garden.

"It's an old suit you've worn umpteen times to other people's weddings is the precise reason you need a new one for your own, you pillock," Sally rolled her eyes. "It doesn't have to be a made-to-measure, but the least you can do is kit yourself out in new togs for your own do." Donovan stood in front of the desk and folded her arms. "Do I need to resort to blackmail?"

"You wouldn't." Greg's eyes narrowed suspiciously

"Bloody would," Sally sounded determined.

Exhaling hard enough to puff out his cheeks, Greg did the only possible thing and played the work card. "There's just too much to do right now," he sighed, waving at his cluttered desk.

"You can spare an hour to go to one shop and have them see what they can do with your pitiful carcass," she demanded. "I know for a fact that nothing there," she nodded at his desk, "is time-critical, because I'm the one who put this stuff on your desk. I also know that your next meeting isn't until two-fifteen this afternoon, which gives us exactly ..." she checked her wristwatch. "One hour and eleven minutes. So get your skates on, I'm taking you to Jermyn Street."

That there was any parking available in the middle of the day in Jermyn Street was miraculous, that they found two empty spaces back to back outside the wall of St James was, therefore, according to Sally, officially a _sign_.

"Here," she pointed to an upmarket menswear establishment on the corner opposite the church. "I've already spoken to a guy called Reynaldo who says he's very familiar with your situation, you being time-poor and all that," she snorted disdainfully. "He's got a whole bunch of stuff ready for you in your size, so there'll be no waiting," she opened the door for him. "In you go."

"How do you know what my size is?" Greg looked around him at the well-appointed shop with the pale green walls and the racks of shirts and jackets all lined up in little regiments.

"Oh, please," Sally caught the eye of a middle-aged man wearing a three-piece suit minus the jacket. "Looking for David Reynaldo," she smiled.

"Ah, and you'd be Sergeant Donovan from the Met?" the man smiled and nodded, shaking her hand. "And this gentleman is, I assume, the lucky groom?"

"A very lucky groom," Greg smiled. "Though paying for a wedding is costing a lot more these days than it did twenty years ago."

"You still need a new suit," Donovan insisted. "So stop whining."

"I'm positive I can find you something that will look outstanding without breaking the bank," the salesman grinned. "We've got some very good quality ready-made suits in your size and we have our own alteration people here in the shop if it's necessary to tweak a few details. Won't you come with me and have a look at the available range?"

Watching as the two men vanished off into a large changing room, Sally looked around for accessories. She knew Greg would end up with something in grey but she wanted him to look a bit special. If she was going to be his Best Person, then she intended to make a good job of it. She strolled over to look at the serried racks of shirts and ties.

"And this is a superfine wool blend," Reynaldo held an open jacket across his arm as Greg stepped into the trousers and fastened the waistband. "Lined with Bemberg silk, making the garment light and very breathable. Very good quality," he added. "Durable and yet easy to wear, even in the summer. Hangs beautifully, as you can see."

It _was_ a lovely bit of craftsmanship, Greg nodded despite himself. The jacket fabric was quite thin between his fingers. The lining was a teal blue and felt very soft. He even liked the way the buttons kissed along the cuffs. It fitted nicely across the shoulders too, he lifted his arms and rolled his shoulders a few times to be sure.

"Bet this costs a packet," he murmured, half to himself.

"Even with a slight trouser-hem alteration, I can let you have the suit for four hundred," the salesman double-checked the fit of the jacket at the back. "However, the waistcoat your colleague is holding may lift your expenditure somewhat."

Glancing out through a crack in the curtains, Greg saw Sally standing patiently with a handful of ties and a silvery-grey waistcoat. He shook his head. "She's determined to make me look pretty," he groaned softly.

"And just how many weddings did you plan on having, sir?" Reynaldo kept his tone light although the meaning was clear.

Knowing when he was beaten, Greg sighed. "Yeah, you're both right," he said. "Don't want to let the side down, I suppose."

"That's the spirit," the salesman smiled. "And now shall we try the jacket with the waistcoat?"

###

Douglas Henshaw, Barrister, had always considered himself a reasonable man. He was clever and articulate and had excelled in debates at school and university, making a career in Law an obvious choice. He'd been a senior partner in the chambers of Stevens & Co. for more than twenty years and had taken Alex Harper into a pupillage in order to see the younger man through the Bar and into a partnership of his own. He had a great deal of time and personal credibility tied up in Alex's career and while the young man's shocking downfall reflected badly on the entire Chambers, it left him personally in an exceptionally poor situation. Harper's unprecedented downward spiral into drug-dealing, murder and attempted murder meant that now Henshaw's own judgment was suspect. One wrong move in the legal industry often led to catastrophic consequences and his opinion was currently worth less than that of the most junior clerk. It simply would not do.

He'd taken it upon himself to go through all of Alex's current caseload after hours to ensure himself, as well as the other partners, that there were no ticking bombs, nothing else that might bring the police back to their rooms in Whitefriars Street. If there was anything in Harper's office that might cause the firm the merest _soup_ _ç_ _on_ of discomfort, he'd deal with it himself and ensure that any problem met an early demise.

Of course, he recognised the Kerr's names as soon as he'd picked up the files; Alex's shooting of the eldest Kerr daughter had been a particularly nauseating element of his court case, but it wasn't until Henshaw was able to go through Harper's detailed file on the Apley inheritance that he was able to see precisely what Alex had been attempting to do. Despite the younger man's appalling management of the situation, Douglas had to acknowledge it as a brilliant idea. Marry the daughter and claim the Earldom. It made perfect sense from a certain point of view.

Sitting in the semi-darkness of Alex's office, Douglas Henshaw wondered how he could turn the situation to his own advantage.


	3. Chapter 3

One really good thing about him being so busy these days, was that the weekends seemed to roll around faster than he remembered them doing. Leaving his work at the office was turning out to be a little easier too, since so much of it now was to do with organising other officers into the major crime investigations and handling their reports. While the most critical of investigations would inevitably land on his own desk, Greg was discovering that with some judicious planning, he had a lot more freedom in his work, especially as he now had three DIs working with him in the Serious Crimes Division. There were also a small complement of detective sergeants, among whom was Sally Donovan. In the moments when she was actually willing to talk about work rather than what he still needed to do for his own wedding, he took pains to point out that she couldn't stay a sergeant forever and to seriously consider putting in for the Inspector's exam. Donovan's usual response was to wince and add more paperwork to his desk. He had no idea why she was resisting the inevitable and he made a mental note to have a quiet word with Personnel to see if there were any obstacles to Sal's promotion he might not know about.

Another really good thing about being busy was that Greg took great pleasure in delegating much of the administration on his desk to those more responsible for seeing to the details, especially to the newcomers. It was something of a joy to be the one who passed the work to other officers in the Division rather than having it continually passed to him. The upshot of all this meant that he was now able to keep his weekends mostly for himself and Freddy, And, of course, the Pimlico house.

The local architect they'd commissioned back in January to produce a blueprint for the top floor conversion had left several sheets of drawings with them, but then other things had taken over their lives and they'd gone no further with it. Given that events were now moving apace, both he and Freddy felt it was time to bite the bullet and complete the final part of the house in preparation for the sale of the apartment.

This morning, Freddy had combed back the hair from his eyes, kissed him lingeringly, before muttering something about buying shoes with her mother, leaving him alone with the plans and at least a couple of hours to kill. Exiting the house through the side door and walking up the enclosed staircase at the back of the building, Greg let himself into to the top-floor apartment for the first time in several weeks. The smell of new wood and fresh-dried plaster brought back memories of his own flat only a few months before. Walking almost the entire length of the apartment, he unlocked the new emergency exit in the outer wall of what would become the laundry and peered down at the regulation steel fire escape that hugged the Lupus Street side of the house. Solidly sleek dark steel, it clung hard to the wall down to ten feet above street level, just one of the things they'd been required to install to satisfy local council building regulations.

All the utilities were now in place for the two bathrooms, the laundry, the spare toilet and the generous kitchen. After Mr Lewis's work, converting the attic into two large dormer rooms, the apartment turned out to be even more spacious than initially imagined, with an extensive master suite and three additional double bedrooms, though the one at the north end of the flat could easily be turned into a luxurious study. For Pimlico and even for London as a whole, this was an enormous piece of real estate All that needed doing now was to fit out everything to a really high quality spec, finish painting all the walls, tart up things like door handles and then clean, stain and seal the great thick oak floorboards that were currently the colour of Thames mud. It wasn't even going to be that much work considering what had already been done and both he and Freddy were a great deal more aware of the potential pitfalls than they had been when they first met on that fateful evening in the pub. Finishing off this top floor was more like revisiting old acquaintances as Greg made a list of all the people he'd need to get back in to handle the installation of the bathroom and kitchen units and to set up the laundry. All the basics were there; this was just the final finishing touches.

And then, of course, they had to go about selling the thing.

By the time they were ready to do that, hopefully Freddy's garden would exist at least in outline if nothing else. Gwendoline's Harrow place already had several people talking to her estate agents and the house had only been on the market for six days. If it came close to realising anywhere near what the agent suggested it might, the proceeds would set Freddy's mum up very comfortably for the rest of her life. That Gwennie was also going to be living just downstairs from the both of them also made a great deal of sense. The old lady would be safe, close at hand and she'd be able to entertain all her old friends in a very elegant manner. Greg smiled in silent satisfaction. Things, it seemed, were looking good for everyone.

Locking up and taking the walled staircase back down to his own apartment, Greg wandered into the master bedroom and into the substantial walk-in wardrobe he and Freddy now shared. Pulling out a slim, pale green suit bag, he laid it on the bed, unzipping it and pulling back the cover. His new suit looked up at him and he was secretly pleased he'd been bullied into getting something nice to wear. Compared to his other grey suit, it was clear to see which one was the newer and fresher model. He grinned, unsure which of the women in his life would be the most appreciative of his sartorial splendour. Slipping the slim velvet case from the jewellers into one of the jacket pockets, he re-zipped the whole thing and hung it up at the very back of his side of the wardrobe. Heading out to the kitchen, he pulled out his phone and started working out whom he'd need to call in first to work on the top floor flat.

The management and staff of the kitchen and bathroom display warehouse at the top of Sutherland Road knew he and Freddy by sight now; they'd spent so much time and money there in the last few months that Greg felt he was almost among family every time he called in. They also knew Gwendoline by sight too, though these days; everyone seemed to be very busy whenever she appeared. It was the work of minutes to drive the BMW up the road and park.

"Ah, Chief Inspector," Derek Symons, Sales Supervisor and by now, a reasonably good acquaintance, smiled. "Delighted to see you again," the man raised his eyebrows. "What can we do for you today? Another kitchen suite, perhaps?"

"In fact, yes," Greg flipped open one of the showroom catalogues on Symon's desk, pointing to a sleek design. "Thinking about this one. We're on the final stretch now," he grinned. "Just have to finish off the top floor apartment and then it's all done."

"Ah yes," the man looked knowingly down at the modern, streamlined units on the page. "Our Manhattan suite," he nodded. "Very elegant, very _chic_."

"Got one in store for me to have a look at?" Greg peered around, wondering if he could spot it. "Freddy likes it too, and we're thinking of having two more of those white porcelain and mahogany bathroom suites as well," he added. "The first one looked so good when we got it into place that we think it would be a sensible idea to stick with what works."

"Indeed, I understand," Symons looked at him appraisingly. "Though we have had a number of new designs arrive since last month. I don't suppose you've seen them, have you?"

"Too busy doing everything else to come window shopping," Greg grinned. "What'ya got for me?"

"This way, Inspector," Symons led the way down a newly reorganised central aisle, changed now to better showcase some newer, more upmarket models. "What do you think of our new Nostalgia designs?" he asked with a cheerful expression. "Each one beautifully crafted to recall a very specific and distinct social mood," he added. "We have the _Art Nouveau_ and her sister, the _Art Deco_ ," he began, indicating two very beautiful bathroom suites of masterful construction. Greg wondered momentarily when he'd begun to look at bathroom stuff and connect it to a word such as 'beautiful', but it was true. These things really were very good looking sets.

"And over here, we have the _Bauhaus_ and the _Impressionist_ ," he added, spreading his hands wide. "Each one of these sumptuous suites would add enormous character and style to any home and naturally," Symons met Greg's eye. "I'm sure we could arrive at some kind of arrangement for such a favoured client as yourself," he murmured discreetly.

Leaning over to clock the nearest of the strategically located price cards, Greg did a literal double take before grimacing. The figures mentioned were nothing short of outrageous. He stepped back, shaking his head. "Too rich for my blood," he took a deep breath. "Very nice, of course," he looked back over the artistically laid out lines of the Art Deco suite. It would look absolutely fantastic in the ensuite of the Master bedroom on the top floor, he knew. The light up there was brilliant and something like this, with its lapis lazuli blue glass ornamentation over dark wood ... _Nah_. Best stick to what he and Freddy had discussed. Apart from anything else, the fighting fund was looking precariously small these days as they approached the end of the project. So many things in the house had cost them so much more than they'd realistically budgeted for; even though they'd done a lot of the grunt work themselves. He'd become so used to paying out big chunks of money that the little that remained was increasingly worrying. But they simply had to sell the top floor flat for the best price and that meant doing the place up to the very best of their ability. Installing a swish bathroom like this in the master suite would certainly lift the game. Greg was seriously torn between what could be and what actually was.

"Best stick to what we've already got, I think," he said slowly. "It'd be fantastic to have one of these as an ensuite but I simply don't have the ready cash for it on top of everything else." Greg smiled ruefully and shook his head again.

"Of course, Inspector, you would be aware of our highly competitive credit terms," Symons lifted another leaflet delicately from a nearby plastic holder. "With up to five years to pay," he smiled helpfully. "It would be such a terrible shame to scrimp on the last few details, especially after you and your fiancée have demonstrated such exquisite and discerning taste in all your previous purchases."

Taking the pamphlet and sliding it into his pocket, Greg wrinkled his nose. "I think we'll still be doing okay if we carry on the way we are, ta," he looked around again for the kitchen display he'd come in hoping to see.

Mr Symons was an excellent salesperson and could tell when he'd piqued a customer's interest. He was also something of a keen angler and knew all about the importance of the right kind of bait.

###

Dressed in a silk dressing gown, Douglas Henshaw sat drinking aged cognac in the lounge of his Mews house in Belgravia among his collection of _objet_ , with costly artworks gracing his Turkish-red silk-papered walls. Though it was barely ten o'clock, it was a Saturday, meaning he had no business calls upon his time for at least another thirty-six hours. In turn, this meant he could indulge his few vices, among which was his love of fine brandy. His wife had gone to her heavenly reward more than ten years earlier and so the only brake on his behaviour these days, was his own determination. Thus, Douglas Henshaw sat in his elegant lounge in his elegant house, drinking his elegant liquor in the middle of the morning.

He'd sorted out all the smaller tasks Alex Harper had left behind and most of the larger projects as well, though a few of those had taken more time than he'd imagined. Douglas had not put in so many consecutive hours of _pro bono_ work for a long time and so he sipped his brandy with a righteous deserve. Most of Alex's files had been run-of-the-mill things: mostly tax problems and one or two property issues, a few draft contracts in need of finalisation and closure, nothing major there. There'd been an interesting power-of-attorney brief that he wouldn't have minded taking on himself; the fees promised to be relatively lucrative for the amount of work involved, probably why the young Harper had taken the job on in the first place. And then, of course, there'd been the matter of the Apley inheritance.

The title of Earl of Apley had lapsed following the death of the incumbent in 1835. William Kerr died, it was thought, without male issue, a fact that was demonstrably incorrect, at least, if the eldest Kerr daughter was to be believed about the missing marriage certificate being found. This meant that, if the present Kerr line could prove a direct descent from William Kerr though his son Charles, then the woman whom Alex had so stupidly alienated, had shot, in fact, was indeed a legal claimant to the title of Countess of Apley. _Frederica Elizabeth Kerr, Countess of Apley_. It had a pleasing ring.

Swirling his cognac slowly in its crystal glass, Henshaw thought a number of interesting thoughts, his gaze lost in the distance of history. _Of course_ , he thought, sipping the intense sprit, the woman would need proper legal guidance in her pursuit and eventual claim of the title. And the new Countess would obviously rely heavily on her legal counsel, especially while there was the matter of reclaiming the lands, properties, chattels and goods pertaining to that new title. This would undoubtedly realise a number of legal actions, a fact that was regrettable but nevertheless unavoidable in this age of materialism and deceit. It would take someone of significant legal and worldly experience to handle these matters appropriately, someone able to deal with the highest persons in the land, other legal advisors, property managers, financial advisers ...

Douglas Henshaw threw back the remnants of the golden spirit and walked slowly into his office, his body tingling with the prospect of becoming the senior legal adviser on what could be the highest-profile case of his long career. Not only would something like this catapult him back into the good graces of the Chamber but it would lead, almost inevitably, to his presence being required at the highest courts ... It was not inconceivable that he might end up as the senior partner of the firm and then ... Henshaw poured himself another brandy and went to sit at the elaborate Victorian writing desk, the green leather top gleaming and empty. Setting the glass down, he opened the shallow central drawer, lifting out a narrow black box, the size of a spectacles case. Opening the case, he took out a dainty silver snuff box and a tiny silver spoon. The fine white powder in the snuff box was at the half-full mark. Henshaw realised that with Alex gone, he'd have to find another dealer as well.

###

By ten o'clock on this fine Saturday morning, Terry Markham of Harrow and London Property Sales, had already had a busy day; two house viewings and a chat with a local surveyor. With his hands in his trouser pockets, he walked slowly around the freshly pruned garden borders of Mrs Kerr's Harrow garden. He'd known the property to have been of a significant size even before he'd been able to see the actual boundary fences, but now that all the old ivy and overgrown crab apples had been removed, he was able to see the size of the plot for what it was. There had to be at least an acre and a half of land here. As he paced the periphery of the property, taking the roughest of measurements with his long strides, Markham saw that this wasn't merely a property sale, but this close to London, a potential developer's dream. Something this big, this near to town rarely came up; the footprint of a land parcel this large could easily handle nine or ten small townhouses in nicely landscaped surrounds. With the prices of inner London properties being what they were, a lot of young professionals would happily spend big money for a decent little house out here, less than a thirty-minute train commute at peak travel time. Modern, high spec townhouses in Harrow started around six-hundred grand, and _ten_ of them ... He smiled, pleased, and kept walking to the very end of the newly cleared gardens.

Of course, old Mrs Kerr had said she wanted to keep the house and land together as a single sale, _for a family with children_ , she'd said. The initial sale price he'd mentioned to her had been with that in mind, even knowing the old house would need gutting and complete refurbishment before anyone could live in the place. But now that he could actually see everything ... Markham stood at the very farthest reaches of the rear garden and looked back past the house towards the road beyond. He couldn't even see the dark line of tarmac. This place was a goldmine.

He'd already had several potential buyers make interested sounds about the property, and that was sight unseen; they'd simply been interested in any new property on the Harrow market. And it would do no harm whatsoever to cultivate those contacts, mostly investors, usually looking to expand their portfolio. But if he could also get the developers interested, and he was pretty sure he could, Terry Markham realised that the Kerr sale could be very big indeed. And while a big sale meant a big commission, an even bigger sale meant a holiday in Barbados with all the trimmings.

Pulling out his phone, Markham called the number of a developer he'd done some business with in the past. The company was reputable and they had always paid a fair price for land, so it wasn't as if the old woman would be done out of anything by selling to a developer instead of to a private vendee.

"Hi Gary, Terry Markham here. You got a minute?"

Their conversation was brief, but detailed enough for Terry to know that his developer friend was interested. _Interested to the possible tune of three mil for the land alone_. Bugger Barbados, this kind of a deal meant a luxury villa in the Maldives for a month. A meeting was arranged for the following Monday when Markham would find out just how serious his builder friend was. And then, of course, all he'd have to do was to convince Mrs Kerr to sell to a developer.

###

The fresh salty air coming off the Thames had been particular noticeable this morning as Freddy decided to take her mother into town to look at shoes. There was a particular reason for this as it would be the last Saturday before she returned to her part-time job at the lab. Her leg was strong enough now to be able to manage the long hours on her feet and besides, she wanted to be back among the research team; she had a great deal to tell her friends there. And so, this morning, was a shoe-buying morning. It was just before ten o'clock when she called for a cab.

Joanne had given her a small swatch of the cloth from which her dress had been made. It wasn't much, but sufficient to use as a colour match. Using her tablet, Freddy had already looked online at some of the major shops but truthfully, hadn't been overly impressed. In keeping with a simple dress, she also wanted some simple shoes, but they had to be low heels as her knee wouldn't cope with anything more than an inch or so high. Unfortunately, this removed three-quarters of the shoes she'd seen online from the running as, no matter how pretty they might look, she'd never be able to take more than a few steps in any of them. And so, like her dress, Freddy was looking for something a bit different from the usual offerings. There had been some lovely little flats at John Lewis and Harriet Wilde's, though paying that much for a frail pair of shoes that didn't look as if they'd last the day ... Freddy made a face and tried to take in her mother's chatter.

"And so I said to the Bishop, that if he didn't want the churchyard filling up with the recently deceased, then he'd simply have to accept that people were going to opt for cremation ..." Gwendoline paused before turning towards her daughter in the cab. "Have you listened to a single thing I've been saying?"

"Sorry, thinking about dragging around town after a pair of shoes on a Saturday mightn't have been the most brilliant of ideas," Freddy looked out the cab window at the congestive traffic.

"I'm afraid it's all part of the event, these days," her mother sighed, looking out the window on the other side of the car. "Everything has to be new and fashionable and terribly expensive," she shook her head sadly. Whether it was the word 'new', 'fashionable' or 'expensive', Freddy couldn't say, but all of a sudden, she had a brainwave.

"Actually driver, would you mind turning around and heading along Moreton Street first, if you don't mind?" Freddy had leaned forward in her seat to catch the cabbie's attention in the rear-view mirror.

Frowning, Gwendoline looked curiously at her daughter. "Are we going back to the house?"

"No, Mummy," Freddy sat back, grinning. "But you've just given me a wonderful idea, when you said that everything was supposed to be new for a wedding these days," she smiled brightly, leaning forward again. "Just here please," at the black cab drew into the kerb. "Thank you very much," she added, handing over a tenner even though they'd barely gone a half-mile.

Standing on the pavement a mere three shops away from Joanne and Sarah's dress shop was a vintage clothing store. "I saw this when we walked past the other day," Freddy grinned again. "And I remember seeing those," she pointed towards a corner of the window display.

"Victorian button boots?" Gwendoline looked mildly horrified.

"They look about my size," Freddy sounded cheerful. "And they're white, so they were obviously intended for a wedding."

"But they've been worn by someone else," Gwendoline looked askance at the notion.

"And how many women have worn the family dress?" Freddy lifted her eyebrows. "Come on Mummy; don't be such an old grouse."

"I _am_ an old grouse," Gwendoline snipped tartly as she followed her eldest child into the shop where Freddy was already pointing the sales assistant towards the window display.

On closer inspection, the boots were the sweetest things. Plain white satin just beginning to turn a soft cream with age. The tiniest kitten heels and a single row of artificial pearl buttons up the front. The soles were hardly marked and the insides were perfect. Everything had been beautifully hand-stitched and the shoes were clearly items of high quality. They would have taken a great deal of time to make and must have been expensive when originally purchased.

"Something old and something new," Freddy muttered as she wriggled her stocking-clad foot into the first shoe. The satin was stiff and unwieldy, making it a close fit even though her feet were not that large. "How much are you asking for these?"

"The ticket says twenty-five pounds as they're virtually brand new," the sales assistant sounded bored. "But you can have them for twenty; they've been in the window for a while and you're the first that's asked to try them."

"Done!" Freddy reached into her bag for her purse.

"And you can see if they'll match the dress as it's only a couple of doors down," Gwendoline looked relieved that the shoes hadn't cost a fortune. Freddy could always get another pair if the boots didn't work out, though she had to admit, they did look dainty on her daughter's feet.

"We can pop in next door to see if they go well with the dress, while we're here," Freddy was thrilled with the dainty wedding slippers and couldn't wait to see how well they suited the dress. Gwendoline smiled inwardly. From being almost indifferent to her wedding clothes, Freddy was swiftly turning into a very normal bride-to-be.

The tiny doorbell tinkled above their heads as they walked into Joanne and Sarah's shop with the button boots in a white plastic bag. As before, Sarah ducked into the maid showroom to see who'd just come through the door. When she saw who it was, her eyes widened with alarm.

"Did mum ring you after all?" she asked, uncertain. "She said she wasn't going to until we knew for sure."

"Knew what?" Freddy's stomach went into freefall at the worried note in Sarah's question. Something was very wrong.

"About the dress," Sarah walked closer, a stricken expression on her face. "It was a complete accident," she began, sounding mortified. "I didn't think to take the dyer's consignment label off the dress case you see because ... well, it just didn't occur to me that anyone else would touch the thing before mum had a chance to do the alterations."

"Has something happened to the dress?" Freddy felt slightly sick. Though she hadn't been bothered about finding the perfect gown before, now that she had, the thought that something had happened to it ...

"Oh, it _is_ you," Joanne emerged from the door at the foot of the stairs. "I thought I recognised the voice," she said, an apologetic smile shaping her face. "We've got a bit of a problem with your dress, I'm afraid," she began, much as Sarah had. "Our drycleaner who handles the cleaning and treatments, including the dying of all our garments, popped in this morning to pick up a batch of dresses, you see."

"And because I hadn't removed the dye instructions, and your dress was hanging up waiting for mum to see to it, he saw his name on the label and assumed we wanted him to take that one as well as the others ... so he did." Sarah clasped her hands together, her expression a picture in anguish. "I'm so sorry. It's all my fault."

"Surely all that needs to be done is to call the man and rescind the instructions?" Gwendoline frowned. "It seems an obvious thing to do."

"We've tried calling several times, but he's not answering, which means he's either still driving around or is at another shop on his collection round," Joanne sighed and looked unhappy as she handed Freddy the drycleaner's business card. "We've left messages on his office phone and his mobile, and I was about to send Sarah off in a cab to see if she could get to his premises before he does, to head him off at the pass, as it were, but there seems to be delay with the cabs this morning; there's none to be had for love nor money."

Wishing she'd asked their own cab to wait for them, Freddy felt her heart thumping. Someone needed to get a message to the man's place of business. The very thought that she might lose her perfect dress made her feel slightly ill. Freddy pulled out her phone and swiped Greg's name open, pressing _Call_.

"Darling, I'm really sorry to bother you, but you wouldn't by any chance be in the vicinity of Baker Street, would you?"

"No, I'm at the kitchen place looking at catalogues. Why?" Greg's voice was clear in her ear, his law-enforcement instincts kicking in not only at the tone of her voice but because Freddy mentioned _Baker Street_.

"There's been something of a mix up and the wedding dress I've chosen has been taken by mistake by a dry cleaner to dye the thing black," she spoke quickly. "He's not answering his phone and we can't get to his place of business and we're all concerned about what might happen if we can't contact him and get the dress back before something dreadful happens."

"And you asked about Baker Street because ..?" Greg waited, wondering.

"Because that's where the drycleaners premises are," Freddy paused, looking down at the address on the card still in her fingers. "Two-twenty-two Baker Street. The business is called 'London Quality Dry Cleaners'," she added. "I realise it's an imposition, but is there any _possible_ chance you could drive there very quickly and rescue my dress? It's clearly marked with my name."

That Freddy wasn't actively telling him to get his arse into gear made him smile. That the place she wanted him to get to was in Baker Street, Two-two- _two_ Baker Street, made him grin. With a smile shaping his face, Greg held the phone to his ear. "I think I can do a bit better than that."


	4. Chapter 4

"You what?" John Watson stood in his Baker Street kitchen, mug in one hand, phone in the other, staring blankly through the window.

Greg explained again with a little more detail. "I don't want to bother Mrs Hudson with her bad hip," he added. "And there'd be little point in me asking His Highness, would there?" he asked reasonably. "So, be a mate and do us a favour, eh?"

"Yeah, sure, no problem," John frowned briefly as he walked through into the lounge to look down at the shops over the road. Almost directly across the road was the discreet shopfront of the drycleaner 'His Highness' used as a matter of convenience: those silk shirts of his didn't hand wash themselves. John had also made use of the cleaning facilities for his coats and jackets, usually after an evening spent haring around muddy back lanes with Sherlock. Gerry, the chap who ran the drycleaners, had always been happy to help out with even the most bizarre requests, and there'd been a few, though trying to explain how his favourite coat was filled with pocket-shaped lumps of congealed pasta had been more than a little embarrassing. It would be the work of a moment to pop over the road and have a word about Greg's fiancée's missing dress. John smiled. The idea of Greg getting married again had caused Sherlock to scowl so mightily that he'd been in real danger of spraining something. It would be interesting to see what sort of woman had attracted the recently promoted DCI.

"She'll either be a physically well-endowed blonde with questionable ethics, or she'll be small, dark and intellectual. Possibly somewhat introverted," Sherlock had predicted the first time John voiced the thought out loud. "People are terribly predictable John," he'd added, measuring a few drops of a viscous clear fluid onto a thin sliver of wood which then started to smoulder. "Lestrade will either stage a repeat of his earlier mésalliance or have the sense to look in the opposite direction."

"Apparently she's a member of the Society of Apothecaries," John had been warming a bottle for Rosie as she fussed, ready for her nap.

"Really?" Sherlock looked up in mild approval. "Then I'll opt for small, dark and introverted," he said, dropping the now-flaming wood into a glass jar which he promptly sealed, watching as the dying flame turned blue. "Arsenic," he nodded happily. "People never learn."

Rosie was fast asleep when John carried her down to Mrs Hudson's door, knocking quietly, though he could hear no hoovering music.

"And _there_ she is." Martha Hudson cooed at the infant as she opened the door. "Getting bigger every day, I bet," she smiled dotingly at the sleeping child.

"Yeah, look Mrs H., could you do me a favour and keep an eye on Rosie while I nip across the road to the cleaners and do something for Greg Lestrade? I won't be more than a few minutes, promise."

"No worries, give her here." The old woman stretched out her arms welcomingly, murmuring softly over the slumbering child. "Such a pretty thing," she murmured, cradling the little girl and ignoring John completely as she turned back into her flat.

"Right then," he muttered at his landlady's turned back. "I'll just be a minute," he added, gesturing towards the front door. When there was no response, he blinked a couple of times before heading to the cleaners.

He was halfway across the road when he saw Gerry's small delivery van turn into the street, convenient timing to say the least. Waiting outside the shop entrance, John met the older man with a smile.

"I'm on a mission of mercy," he said in response to Gerry's questioning expression. "Looks like you collected a dress that wasn't meant to be collected," he grinned. "I just had a pleading phone call to come and save it from your evil clutches before you dyed it a different colour or something."

"Know which one it was?" Gerry swung open the back doors of the van to reveal two hanging racks of clothes and cases, with a layer of bags and shallow boxes below.

"It comes from the wedding dress shop in Moreton Street," John consulted his memory for details. "Name of Kerr on the bag."

"Yeah, I did pick up a few things from there," the drycleaner nodded. "Half a tick," he said, diving into the mass of hanging garment bags before emerging triumphant with a long black dress case in his hand. KERR was written in large white capitals down the side. "This must be the one," he nodded, checking the consignment label before taking out his phone and calling the dress shop for confirmation. By the smile on his face, the news of the dress's rescue had been well received.

"Here you go mate," Gerry handed the long case over. "They was lucky 'cos I was going to do the dying later this morning. Saved by the bell, eh?" he laughed, waving his phone in the air.

Smiling his thanks, John headed towards his own front door with the dress case resting carefully over his arms. Deciding to hang it up in his and Rosie's room for safety's sake, he hitched it up behind the bedroom door before going to collect his child.

"Hello, Greg?" he called as he walked down the stairs. "Mission accomplished. Your ladylove's frock is now safely in my room. When do you want to come and collect it?"

###

"Oh, thank the Lord," Gwendoline accepted the cup of tea Sarah held out to her. "That would have been catastrophic."

"Especially if it meant I had to go out and buy another dress," Freddy leaned against the wall in quiet relief. Not only because she'd been saved from having to go on another wedding dress safari but more because she genuinely liked the dress and had subconsciously set her heart on wearing it.

"And you also have the shoes now, though I'm still in two minds about their suitability, I have to say," Gwendoline sipped her tea with a meaningful raise of her eyebrows.

"Then let's have an expert opinion," Freddy picked up the plastic bag from the vintage shop and pulled out the dainty white satin button boots. Holding them up for Sarah and her mother to see, she turned them in her hands for a better look. "The satin is perfect though a little stiff and tight in places," she said. "But the pearl buttons are just beautiful and the sole is barely marked, see?" she held them out, hoping a positive response would spare her further maternal remonstances.

"These are truly lovely," Joanne held her hands out for one of the shoes, her eyes fixed on the buttons. "Try a little steam on the satin, then put them on your feet with a thick pair of socks and dry the shoes with a low-heat hairdryer," she said absently. "Satin doesn't have a lot of give, but if you can soften and shape it to your feet, it might be more comfortable for you." Frowning a little, she held the shoe up to the light. "This is extraordinarily high quality bridal footwear," she mused softly. "Handmade and bespoke," she looked at the small round pearl buttons more closely with narrowed eyes. "Cobblers have been using mother-of-pearl for buttons for thousands of years," she murmured, tilting the shoe in and out of the daylight. "But these are spherical beads, not flat buttons," she arched her eyebrows as she scraped her thumbnail over a couple of the shiny beads, nodding slowly. "I thought for a second these might be French glass pearls," she went on, rubbing one of the buttons carefully. "There was a huge resurgence in pearls in late Victorian fashion which led to the development of perliculture in Britain at that time and," she paused, scraping one of the buttons again. "I'm not a hundred percent positive, but I think these are real cultured pearls, early ones, not manufactured buttons at all," Joanne finished with a thoughtful smile. "You bought yourself a proper work of art with these, my dear," she said, handing the shoe back to Freddy who looked bemused.

"Are you sure?" Gwendoline was more surprised than the bride-to-be. "That would make them terribly costly things to wear. Who on earth would put cultured pearls on a pair of shoes?"

"It's clear these are very expensively made shoes," Joanne shrugged slightly. "And there have always been wealthy families here in London to pay for such things. You can take them to a jewellers and have them tested," she smiled. "But I'm fairly sure. You see a lot of pearls in this business, so I'm reasonably confident," she added. "The Victoria and Albert Museum would love to have these, I bet."

"My god," Freddy sat, suddenly. "And I got them for twenty quid in a second-hand shop."

"It was meant to be, in that case," Sarah said cheerfully. "Sets the theme for the wedding though, doesn't it?"

"Pearls, you mean?" Freddy exhaled abruptly, nodding. "That suggests white scabiosa for the flowers and general decorations. Maybe some pyracantha ..." she smiled. "Flowers like pearls."

"And you must certainly wear the pearls your father gave me," Gwendoline had got over her shock and was now in the swing of things. "That deals with the old and new and borrowed," she mused. "Though what for the blue?"

"We've got a box of blue garters," Sarah gestured helpfully towards the storeroom, a faint curve to her mouth.

"I'm not a garter kind of person," Freddy shook her head unyieldingly. "No frilly stuff, remember?"

"When I say _garters_ ," Sarah began to grin in earnest. "What I _really_ meant is a drawer full of lacy unmentionables for the wedding night reveal," she laughed. "May as well go the whole hog on your first night. Give your new husband a treat."

Pausing, as if the very idea of their wedding night might be a treat for Greg, was something she hadn't considered, Freddy blinked. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to look," she said slowly.

"Good," Sarah stood and beckoned. "Come with me."

"Ah, the wedding night," Gwendoline smiled at her own memories as the two younger women left the main showroom. "I was beginning to think my daughter would never have one."

"I'm sure it'll be a beautiful wedding and everyone will have a fabulous time," Joanne took a spare seat and smiled companionably. "Have you decided what you'll be wearing yourself?"

"Oh, I've a number of summer outfits that would do," Gwendoline airily waved the question away. "Every eye will be on my daughter, naturally."

"But think of all those photographs!" Joanne was scandalised at such lèse-majesté. "Of _course_ you have to have a new wedding outfit; as mother of the bride, people will be looking to you to set the standard. A summer dress simply won't do for a high-profile wedding, it simply won't."

"Well, if you put it that way ..." Gwendoline sounded tentative. "Naturally, I wouldn't want to let the family down in any way ..."

"Of course you don't, Mrs Kerr," Joanne nodded self-righteously. "And with a figure as dainty as that of the bride's, I think you could easily carry off something very dashing and stylish, I do indeed."

"You really think so?" Gwendoline considered her current wardrobe. She'd bought several new things in the time she'd been staying with Freddy at the Dolphin, though those had been mostly cold-weather items. "I suppose I could have a look around at a few places and see what's available these days."

"Come right this way and have a look at some of the finest online collections," Joanne pointed to the open laptop on the counter. "Only last night I was looking at this stunning shot silk dress suit in an absolutely gorgeous aquamarine blue ... here, look," she said, turning the laptop for Gwendoline to see. A graceful dress with a short, lightweight jacket in material a shade darker than the dress itself. "You would be able to carry that off with real flair, I'm sure." It was a superb rich blue-green suit; stylish and _chic_ but on the right side of elegant.

"And where is this garment to be found?" Gwendoline asked, looking fruitlessly for the name of the shop.

"That's the beauty of this thing," Joanne tapped the lightweight computer. "You don't even need to go to them; I can arrange for it to be sent here for your viewing," she smiled triumphantly. "It's probably best to choose a few outfits so it's worth them delivering them here for you. I do it all the time with my bridesware stock; these dresses are too expensive for me to pay for them all, so I usually have a few on spec, with a fresh delivery here every few weeks. It's the way things work these days."

"Well, in that case, I would very much like to try the suit, and perhaps something in mauve and grey? I always have liked those two colours together."

"Right then." Joanne called up another search page. "Let's have a look, shall we?"

###

Greg's silver-blue BMW pulled into the side of the road an hour after he'd made his call for help. He'd made it out of the kitchen and bathroom place without committing himself to any credit arrangements, though he kept the finance leaflet in his pocket and was still thinking about that Art Deco bathroom suite. Maybe he'd see what Freddy thought about the design before he did anything else.

"John! _Mate!"_ he grinned as the shorter blond man opened the door for him. "Never have I been more happy that to know someone living in this street."

"Yeah, well, come in then and you can complete the daring rescue," John smiled cheerfully as he escorted his friend inside. "Sherlock's off meeting a bunch of scientists at Bart's to discuss setting up a body farm in the Home Counties somewhere," he wrinkled his nose.

"I expect he'd be among the first to use the place," Greg could see the attraction of such a place for a man like Sherlock Holmes.

"Are you kidding?" John paused on the steps up to the flat. "He'd probably want to camp out at the place," he shook his head as he opened the door. "We'd need crowbars to get him out of there."

John made tea while Greg examined the dress case with Freddy's name on it. For a fleeting moment he had a nearly overwhelming desire to unzip the case and have a peek, but pushed the impulse aside. It wasn't his secret to reveal. He smiled, wondering just how flamboyant his bride-to-be would turn out on the day. His darling fiancée was nothing if not creative. He smiled again.

"Not long now then," John handed over a mug and sat down, smiling. "Getting cold feet yet?"

"Not in the least," Greg sat in Sherlock's chair with a sparkle in his eye. "Best decision I ever made was to let Freddy propose to me," he laughed, sipping his tea.

"Oh, like that, is it?" John looked smug. "Got you under the thumb already?"

"Not a bit of it," Greg shook his head. _How to describe Freddy?_ "She's probably the cleverest woman I've ever known, along with being one of the most decent, honest and brave individuals I've ever had the privilege of meeting," he added, staring down into his tea. "And on top of that, she's bloody gorgeous, too," he looked back up at John, a little self-consciously. "I'm utterly smitten, John, I admit it. I'd do anything for her, I swear."

"Sounds like it," the blond man blinked, looked momentarily sad, then smiled. "All ready for the big day?"

"Yeah, I s'pose," Greg adopted a hard done by expression. "I've got Donovan giving me stick at work since she's taken it upon herself to make sure my bit in the wedding is going to be absolutely perfect," he looked ruefully. "Sal's turned into a right demon, John, a _demon_. There's not a day goes past without her asking me if I've checked this or done that," he rolled his eyes. "Then Freddy's mum, who's a real stickler for proper form, keeps looking at me sideways whenever we talk about the guest list or stuff like that, because we asked her if she'd like to organise the wedding and she's like a bloody Field Marshall and I've absolutely no sodding idea what's she's setting up for us," he sighed heavily and shook his head. "I'm a wreck, mate. I really am."

"Which no doubt explains the great big grin on your face," John examined his friend over the top of his mug. "You're loving every minute of it, aren't you?" he said in a mildly accusing tone.

"Does it show?" Greg permitted his open grin to return. "I'm having a ball, to be honest. We're doing things on a bit of a budget because the house still needs to be finished and the top floor sold," But I tell you John, I'm having a blast. The women are organising it all and letting me get on with the house," he relaxed back into the chair. "I feel a bit guilty, to be truthful. I feel like I should be doing a bit more but ..." he shrugged. "I'm surrounded by smart, competent women. What's a man to do?"

"Have you decided where you want to have your pre-nuptial dinner yet?" John asked idly. "Mrs Hudson said she'd be happy to take Rosie for the evening, so taking the time out is no trouble. "Sherlock has said he might show his face, which means if he's bored enough or if he thinks it might get him in your good books, then he may turn up, but you know Sherlock."

"Yeah, I do," Greg pursed his lips. "Actually, I'd really like it if he could come, even for a half-hour to have a drink with me and Freddy. I'd like them to meet. He might like her; she's not like most women," he paused. "She's connected to the aristocracy if you can believe it."

"Really?" It was John's turn to grin. "Got yourself a wealthy heiress, eh? Crafty sod. No wonder you're feeling pleased with life."

"Freddy's got no more money than you or I," Greg shook his head. "Though she inherited the house in Pimlico, which was no small thing. No, her father had a claim on an earldom but he died before he could go after it, so Freddy's a real, actual aristo." He looked up at the ceiling. "Imagine me, a lad from a council estate, marrying into to a nobby family," Greg rested the side of his head on two fingers. "Takes some believing."

"And what about the honeymoon?" John was enjoying his friend's happiness. Greg had been miserable with his first wife for far too long and it was great to see him so cheerful and full of beans. "Going somewhere with white sandy beaches and big soft beds?" he grinned.

"Going fly-fishing in Scotland," Greg laughed delightedly. "There's some of Freddy's cousins up there, place called Kelso on the River Tweed. Freddy's promised to teach me how to do it."

"Get her to teach you how to fish while you're at it," John winked salaciously, laughing at the other man's droll expression,

"Yeah, yeah," Greg stood, picking up the dress case. "Not sure where we're going to have the dinner, but it'll be somewhere casual and easy to get to, no point getting all dolled up twice in the same week. I'll give you a bell and let you know, okay? See if you can convince Himself to show his ugly mug; I'd like him to meet Freddy, I really would."

"I'll see what I can do," John smiled as he walked the older man to the door.

###

"You can't be serious," Freddy held an almost transparent pair of micro panties up at eye-level.

"Or there's this, if you'd like to go a bit more traditional," Sarah said, lifting up a hanger with the palest blue silk bustier and matching briefs. "Most men enjoy unwrapping their bride, you know," she grinned wickedly. "Nobody else gets to see you in this but him," she added. "It adds a little spice to the, ah, _preamble_ , as it were."

Freddy had just spent the last twenty minutes trawling through a collection of undergarments that even the most broadminded of people would consider risqué. Some of the things hardly merited the description of 'clothing', while others were downright pornographic, not to mention entirely unsuited for their general purpose. Containing less fabric than a strip of ribbon, several pairs of the 'honeymoon knickers' had more openings than were strictly necessary.

"I think perhaps something with a little less spice and a little more elegance?" Freddy took the blue bustier set for a closer look. It was indecent, of course; quite shameless, in fact, though it would cover several strategic inches and could work with a strapless dress.

But then there was the matter of her injured leg. Greg seemed utterly oblivious to the thing though Freddy was always aware of it these days, considering it both horrible and ugly, even though the damage to her knee had been repaired and the disfiguring scar was already fading. But was there really any point gilding the lily when the bloom itself was damaged?

"Or there's thing sort of thing," Sarah produced yet another hanger holding an ivory all-in-one corset affair with pale blue bows and dangling suspenders. "It's got ribbon laces down the back for your man to undo and stockings for him to take off," she paused, her expression scandalously suggestive as she wiggled her eyebrows. "Or not."

"Opaque stockings ..." Freddy murmured, assessing the garment for its functionality and ... other qualities.

"Oh, of course. We've got loads of those," Sarah dived into another drawer, bringing out several cellophane packages containing several variations of white stockings. "This is the most popular one; it's called 'Mist'," Sarah pulled a sample of the fine off-white nylon over her fingers which, Freddy was relieved to note, were delicately masked by the stretchy fabric. Her scarred leg would look almost normal with one of these on.

"I think I'll take this ivory one, in that case and three pairs of stockings," she smiled, her eyes sliding back to the pale blue bustier. _Oh, what the hell_. "And I'll take this one as well, thanks," she handed both hangers back to the younger woman and began returning the unwanted items to the drawer. Freddy had no real idea if Greg would be pleased by any of this but she was at least making an effort. Not only was he a wonderfully kind and thoughtful man but he'd turned out to be a most romantic and affectionate lover. Freddy smiled privately; her mother would definitely approve of Greg's bedroom activities. Perhaps a little extra spice wouldn't hurt on the honeymoon. With the underthings taken care of, she returned to the main part of the shop, only to see her mother scrolling along a laptop screen in a most professional manner.

"You know Freddy, I really must get one of these laptap things," she said in all seriousness. "The places I've been able to reach in the last ten minutes are amazing! I can do everything I need with a few clicks of this," she held up a wireless mouse. "All I needed to do was type in my address and my VISA card number, and I can have whatever I want! It's incredible!"

Realising that nothing on the internet was safe now that her mother had discovered technology, Freddy couldn't help but smile.

"Lap _top_ , Mummy," she corrected carefully. "And yes, they are wonderful things. Are you ready to go? I've found what I wanted and I really would like to be at the house when Greg brings the dress back."

"You'll let me know when the outfits arrive?" Gwendoline turned to Joanne, seeking confirmation.

"The minute I have a delivery date I'll give you a shout," the proprietress nodded, pleased. This wedding was turning into quite the family affair. "And if either or both of you need your hair and makeup done on the day, I can give you the names of a couple of people who would be thrilled to come to your house and organise everything for you."

"Oh god," Freddy sounded faintly alarmed. "Is that essential?"

Sarah shook her head as she handed over the stiffened white carrier bag with Freddy's purchases. "Not in the least, but it can add a little pampering to your special day," she shrugged. "It all depends on what makes you feel at your best."

"We'll certainly consider the idea, my dear," Gwendoline was all smiles. This was turning out to be a most interesting day. "A wedding is the perfect occasion for a little pampering."

Not bothering to call a cab, the women decided to return to the house on foot, both in silent communion with their thoughts.

"Only the flowers, the transport and the reception left to organise now, darling," Gwendoline smiled to herself. "And if you write down the types of flowers you'd like, I can take care of those. What kind of a reception would you and Gregory prefer? I was thinking perhaps not the most formal of events; something rather less ostentatious than Balwyn Castle but more upmarket than an hotel. I was wondering if you remember Roxeth Priory? It was transformed into a very smart reception centre a few years ago, though they've retained all the classical architectural features. The interior is most tasteful. Would that suit you both, do you think? It's only minutes from St Mary's."

"I think that sounds perfect, Mummy," Freddy swung the small bag in her fingers, her heart feeling very light for some reason. "Though do tell me if all this is getting to be a little much for you," she said. "It's a lot to take on."

"Nonsense, my dear child," Gwendoline tucked her hand into her daughter's elbow. "I can't remember the last time I've had so much fun. It's such a joy to be able to organise these few things for you and your adorable Gregory," she squeezed Freddy's arm. "Not long now, darling."

Sighing slightly and nodding to herself, Freddy realised she felt surprisingly happy. So many things seemed to be falling quite naturally into place. It was going to be a perfect wedding.

###

Ensconced in his private office at the company chambers, Douglas Henshaw was in the process of constructing a letter to one Henry Fitzwilliam Esq., senior partner in Family Law at the office of _Hunters_ , Lincoln's Inn. Alex Harper had been an attentive pupil and had learned not only how to take effective notes, but also what kind of detail was required to create a proper legal brief. After familiarising himself thoroughly with Alex's research surrounding the Apley title, Henshaw felt the time was ripe to initiate a low-key foray into the world of inheritance law, essential really, if he were to have sufficient details by which to convince the young Kerr woman to establish her own claim. Her father, apparently, had been going through the motions of a pre-claim but had died before anything major had been done about it.

Something about the date of Kerr Senior's death gave him pause and he sifted through the various papers in Alex's old file until he found a copy of the death certificate. Robert Kerr had died from drowning whilst fishing. The river had been in spate and he'd lost his footing in the surging water, fell in, banged his head and drowned. There'd been an inquest but the man had often gone fishing and the coroner brought down a verdict of accidental death with the minimal of fuss. Yet there was still something niggling about the date of the man's death … Henshaw tapped his chin slowly, thinking back fifteen years. He froze into absolute stillness. Alex Harper had joined the chambers only months before as a legal clerk … Surely Harper coming to Stevens & Co. at that time was a pure coincidence … the Coroner's report made it quite clear that … Douglas Henshaw felt the air leave his lungs as the enormity of the situation filled his mind. One of the reasons Alex had been given the job of junior legal clerk was because of the thorough research he'd undertaken on his own family tree; the level of detail had been astonishing. That he had been a second cousin to Robert Kerr hadn't emerged until the trial … but _surely_ not? Surely Alex wouldn't have …

But then Douglas recalled the younger man's involvement with the murder of the professor at the Apothecary Centre, as well as the fact that he'd taken a shotgun to Kerr's daughter when she refused to marry him. Henshaw lifted his eyebrows as he felt his heartrate slow. It was all a long time ago and if nobody else had put two and two together then it was probably for the best if his speculations remained unspoken. Gathering his thoughts, he returned to his composition of the letter to Henry Fitzwilliam, assuming the man was still with the firm. Fifteen years was indeed a long time.

The letter finished and in the outbox for collection and posting on the morrow, Henshaw poured himself a glass of his favourite cognac. With a little good fortune, he'd soon have the necessary information he needed to approach Frederica Kerr. The woman was unlikely to have established any further relationships since the shooting and he was confident it would be a straightforward job to convince her to set her cap at the Apley inheritance. After all, who would not want to be a Countess? It would only take a little persuasion.


	5. Chapter 5

"That's Reggie and Moira coming," Gwendoline ticked off the names from a list of invited guests. "Apparently they're very keen to catch up with everyone and to meet Gregory," she smiled meaningfully. "I'm sure it wouldn't hurt him to have a Chief Constable as a family friend," her tone was serenely innocent.

"Don't start trying to organise Greg in the same way you've organised all of us in the family, Mummy," Freddy muttered as she sorted out her clothes for the Scottish holiday. It wasn't exactly romantic to be packing wellington boots, but she knew the area of old and was nothing if not practical. Her suitcase was going to contain the oddest assortment of honeymoon gear, ranging from cold-weather survival to boudoir come-hither. They could always buy anything they'd forgotten, of course, but with some judicious forward planning, most eventualities should be covered. Freddy wondered if Greg possessed long-johns. Even at the height of summer, hypothermia was a real risk when standing in waders up to one's middle in the swift-running Tweed. She made a mental note to check the suitability of his underwear. "He won't stand for it for one moment and you'd be upset if he started to ignore what you say, wouldn't you?"

"I understand him well enough, my dear," Gwendoline smiled to herself. Gregory Lestrade was a wonderful man and her daughter was immensely fortunate to have found him. She would do nothing to imperil the relationship. "And don't worry. Even though I'll be living downstairs from the pair of you, I'll be as much an intrusive mother-in-law to him as I am to Henri. Have you ever heard your sister complaining about my interference?"

"That's because they live in France, Mummy." Pausing her packing, Freddy thought for a moment about her next-youngest sister Louise and her very pleasant husband, Henri Cissac. Their life on the moderate-sized Cissac family vineyard just outside of Pauillac in the Médoc seemed blissfully ideal, though Henri was always complaining about how his grapes didn't like so much rain. Their daughter Cosette was thriving like a weed and, if Louise had her way, would shortly be joined by at least one or two siblings. The Cissac family seemed to be living a storybook existence, though Freddy knew her sister had found it difficult at first, adjusting to the life of a French chatelaine. Would she have the same problems as her sister, being the partner of a London police officer? True, there had been a number of occasions in the recent past when Greg had had to work unsocial hours, dealing with some very unsavoury people, though that seemed to be easing off since his promotion. Frowning slightly, Freddy wondered what other challenges she might have to face as Greg's spouse. And for that matter, how would he cope being married into a family which could trace its lineage back over a thousand years to the very first Charles Ker who drew breath in the Scottish borderlands? He seemed to be managing with her mother, but he'd not met the rest of the family yet.

However, the upcoming dinner would be a good icebreaker. It had seemed a perfectly sensible notion to have a communal dinner somewhere relaxing, rather than do the usual hen- and stag parties. Neither she nor Greg were huge drinkers as a rule and, truth be told, Freddy would vastly prefer a nice dinner somewhere than a raucous pub crawl. The party was set for Friday night and the wedding the following week. It would be almost a relief to meet Greg's friends after all this time.

A movement caught her eyes and Freddy turned to watch her mother ticking off several more names from the list. _God_. Just how many people had she invited?

###

Douglas Henshaw was feeling relatively pleased with his morning's work. Not only had he managed to convince the rest of the partners in Chambers to support his work with the potential new claimant to the Apley inheritance, but he'd been actively encouraged to do so.

"Just what the old firm needs," George Stevens, Senior Partner and an old surviving member of the company's founding family. "Some fresh new patronage from the landed gentry," he nodded thoughtfully, a classic snob to his very core. "Never hurts to lift the profile of Chambers, eh, Douglas?"

"So very true, George," Henshaw's smile was an oily ripple. "And a Countess from such an ancient family," his smile grew slightly more shark-like. "The young woman will need all the help we can possibly give her."

"That's the way," the old man waved a vague hand as he wandered off, back to his cosy office. _Probably for his mid-morning nap_ , Henshaw's face showed no sign of his thoughts. His letter to Hunters had resulted in an invitation to a meeting the following day, so it was important to have all the dominoes lined up and ready to fall. Of course, the partners at Hunters wouldn't give him so much as the time of day until the young Kerr woman had signed him up as her legal counsel, but the very _fact_ of the meeting was the immediate purpose of his plan. Regardless of what was said tomorrow, or rather, what was not said, Henshaw knew precisely how his little scheme would work itself out. In a matter of weeks, he'd have the heiress to the Apley inheritance following his every edict. It was a shame, he felt, that he wasn't twenty years younger. Alex Harper had indeed landed on a brilliant plan. But if he was too old to be a suitor, Douglas felt he was the perfect age to be an _é_ _minence grise_.

Returning to his private office, Henshaw set about assembling the impressive and, thanks to his erstwhile pupil's diligence, substantial, brief he was amassing in order to bring the future Countess Frederica Kerr back into her rightful titles and properties, and him with it.

###

Greg had suggested they have their party at Brunswick House Café in Vauxhall. It was central, had plenty of parking and served some classic British dishes. They also offered great cocktails and had several decent ales on tap. The food ranged from stately-home roast quail, to double-fried chips in a basket. The place had a number of different-sized private rooms for hire and Greg had eaten there before so it was something of a known quantity. Weeks before, as soon as Freddy had agreed, he'd phoned up and booked a room to seat thirty people, agreeing to set up an open bar for the first hour, though he had a feeling this might put a bigger dent in his limited finances than he'd like.

"Bloody coppers," he scowled expressively as he scanned his laptop, looking at the menu for the night. "They all drink like fishes and then arrest you as soon as you hug the nearest lamppost," he scowled a bit more. "Dunno why I'm inviting any of them bastards to this do, I really don't."

"Because you're a bloody copper too," Freddy wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with some enthusiasm. They'd both been so busy these last few weeks what with the house and the wedding preparations, that the burgeoning relationship growing between them had been a little neglected. "And because you're a wonderful friend and a generous man and because you want me to get on with the people you work with."

"Sussed that, did you?" Greg gazed down into dark hazel eyes, a sudden warmth flaring low in his belly. Gwendoline was off looking at flowers somewhere and they were alone in the house. He wrapped his arms around her middle, bringing her close. "Clever girl. You're quite right you know," he murmured, gently nuzzling her ear. "Though nobody will need free booze and grub as a bribe to like you," he nibbled his way down the side of her neck. "They'll all fall in love with you as much as I have," he smiled against her skin. "But please carry on stroking my ego about being wonderful and all that," his lips grazed hers. "A man never gets to hear about his good points very often."

About to make a mildly scathing retort, Freddy found her mouth taken in an unexpectedly ardent kiss, as Greg's hands roamed down her back, tugging her harder against him so that his sudden arousal was obvious. Feeling her own desire flash into life, she groaned as she moved her hand to stroke him through his jeans.

"Oh, god," Greg wound himself around her completely, revelling in the sensation of her fingers squeezing and caressing his rapidly-growing interest. "I don't know how much fishing you think we're going to get done in Scotland," he hissed, holding her head still as he kissed her hard and with a growing heat, his breathing thickening with an engulfing passion for the woman in his arms. "At this rate, we're not going to be leaving the bedroom."

"Take me there now, please." Freddy's eyes were shining and huge as she clung to him, her face flushed and bright. "I need you, darling. _Please_."

Greg surprised himself at the low growl that rumbled in his chest as he hoisted Freddy's small form into his arms and strode along the passageway to their bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him. He had no recollection of removing his clothes or of helping Freddy with hers, only that, at some point, the sheets were cool against his burning flesh and his entire focus was on their blazing act of love.

###

The Brunswick House Café was a fairly upmarket kind of place and, while there was no dress code, the general consensus was smart-casual, which seemed about right. They were in the Chandelier Room and the darkly polished walls and mirrors surrounding the crisply checkered floor, gleamed in the reflected glittering lights.

As hosts, Greg and Freddy had arrived early, checking there was enough seating and that the small bar was well stocked. Freddy sipped from a champagne flute and sat chatting with the barman about her favourite cocktails as Greg crossed the small dancefloor to check out the pre-recorded dance music that was about to kick off. The young woman flicking through dials and switches as she confirmed the system was working perfectly. She flashed Greg a wide smile are he walked over.

"You'd be Mr Lestrade?" she guessed, shaking Greg's hand. "Looks like you've got a lovely night for your party."

It was indeed a fine Friday evening and, so far, everything had gone according to plan. The Yard mob had waved him away for him office earlier than usual, as he needed to change and get to the venue for a seven-thirty start. He'd surprised Freddy in their shower at which point, she surprised him with a more than usually amorous welcome home. If it wasn't for the fact of the party, they might never have left the house until the following morning.

As it was, Freddy surprised him again by finally emerging from the ensuite clad in a new and very fetching scarlet cocktail dress that fell to mid-calf above low-heeled black suede sandals. Her tanned shoulders gleamed in the dusk light through the tall windows and her dark hair looked sleek and fresh, held back from her face by a headband matching the dress. Tiny diamond beads decorated her ears and she wore a fine gold wristwatch. "It's Mummy's," she waved her hand in the air. "She said I couldn't possibly wear my usual watch on an occasion such as this. It looks nice, don't you think?"

Adjusting the knot of his new tie, Greg blinked at the sight of his beloved looking so festive and smart. He'd half expected her to wear her usual dark trousers and baggy jacket. The width of his sudden smile showed his appreciation.

"You look absolutely stunning," he took her fingers and twirled her around so that the skirt of her dress flared outwards. Laughing, Freddy turned to admire his own outfit when she was stopped by an oddly uncertain expression on Greg's face.

"What is it?"

"Dunno," Greg rested his chin in the fingers of one hand as he walked around her. "You look fantastic ..."

"But?" Freddy raised her eyebrows. She'd taken every care in the choosing of this outfit, knowing how important this party was for him. Didn't he like the dress?

"I'm not sure," Greg nibbled his bottom lip. "But it feels like there's something missing from the picture."

"Such as what?" Freddy frowned. "I assure you I'm wearing everything I'd planned to wear with this outfit."

"Yeah, but still," Greg shook his head slowly. "Something's not quite right," he paused thoughtfully, before his face relaxed and he nodded. Slipping his hand into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a small black leather box, opening it as he stepped closer.

Inside the box was an elegant diamond solitaire ring.

"What with one thing and another, we never did seem to get around to one of these, did we?" he said lovingly as he reached for her left hand. "I hope I got the right size," he added, slipping the ring on her finger. "Your mum told me the size of your other rings and we sort of went from there," he paused, bright-eyed as the ring slid home. "I wanted to be sure, you see," he added. "That you were still planning on marrying me next week."

"Oh Greg," her voice was a whisper as she stared at the fabulously glinting stone. "It's a beautiful ring, but there was no real need," she met his eyes, her smile brilliant. "I would have been happy with a plain gold one next week," she said, shaking her head as she gazed down again at the sparkling diamond. "It's superb, it truly is."

Relieved that Freddy liked the ring, Greg felt his stomach do a quick summersault as the realisation that in a week's time, he was going to be married to this gorgeous, sexy, smart woman. There was a distinct wobble in the region of his knees and an unaccustomed prickle in his eyes. "I love you so much," he said, suddenly husky. "I still can't believe my luck."

"Don't you dare make me cry," Freddy sucked in a deep breath and punched him gently on the arm. "I had enough trouble with this damn mascara the first time."

"The guys from the Yard aren't going to know what hit them," Greg kissed the side of her mouth, mindful now of the carefully-applied lipstick. "I am going to be the most envied man in the entire Met," he grinned wickedly.

"You are such a fantasist," Freddy couldn't help smiling back. "I am the most ordinary thing in the world."

Unwilling to argue about anything right now, Greg contented himself with holding her close. "Just don't flirt too hard with any of the lads," he murmured. "You'll break their hearts and that would put the mockers on my solve rate," his voice was velvet and, despite her pragmatic upbringing, Freddy felt herself melt.

"Such an idiot," she pushed him away. "If we don't leave now, I'll be forced to take you back to bed," she fixed him with an enquiring look. "Make up your mind."

Groaning a little, Greg wrinkled his face. Such a choice was totally unfair given his emotional state. "There's always later," he smiled enigmatically. "I'm a patient man."

With a swirl of her dress, Freddy smiled at him over her shoulder. "Hold that thought," she blinked languorously and sashayed through the door.

###

The music had started off relatively quietly for the first half-hour, as people trickled in, in twos and threes. Greg and Freddy met everyone near the door, introducing the newcomers to one another and pointing them towards the bar, suggesting they have a look at the menus flying around the place.

It was inevitable that some people asked awkward questions. Freddy confirmed to several of her friends from the Apothecary Centre that _yes_ , Greg was indeed the police officer they had met briefly when Roy Armstrong's death was being investigated and _yes_ , it was quite true that they'd fallen in love while renovating the Pimlico house together. Greg likewise confirmed to several other Met staff that _yes_ , Freddy was indeed the woman he'd saved after a shooting and _yes_ , she'd inherited the house they had renovated and in which they would be living after the wedding. When asked if Freddy was as posh as she sounded, Greg merely smiled in an enigmatic and unrevealing fashion and watched as his affianced charmed the pants off Duncan Brimacombe, he of Flying Squad fame. The big man seemed to hang on her every word and Greg wondered what story Freddy was sharing. He didn't have to wonder very long.

"You never told us you faced down that nut-job with a shotgun in his hands," DI Brimacombe handed Greg a fresh half-pint of bitter. "Your lady-love told me the whole thing," he added. "Sod that for a game of soldiers," he widened his eyes dramatically and looked frightened.

"Don't be a dick," Greg shook his head. "You know how these things go down. It all happened in a few seconds; we never actually thought he'd do it," he shrugged. "I've always felt it was my fault he did, and Freddy was the one who paid the penalty."

"Now who's being a dick?" Duncan Brimacombe sipped his cider, his eyes on the small figure in a scarlet dress. "She's a proper princess, that lady of yours," he said thoughtfully. "Don't fuck it up."

"I have no intention of fucking anything up," Greg was also watching Freddy as she introduced several of her lab-colleagues to some of the unaccompanied Met officers with a social ease he'd never seen in her before. She must have got it from her mother; Greg could imagine Gwennie in her element, queening it around the odd soirée or two in her time. Probably with her husband's army chums. He smiled at the thought of Gwendoline all done up to the nines for a regimental dinner. She must have loved those days.

As the first hour of the party passed and people had a few drinks and ordered food, the music increased in both volume and tempo as some brave souls ventured out onto the dance floor. Greg knew Freddy still felt self-conscious about her leg which was why he didn't pester her for a dance just yet. The night was young and there'd be slower tunes later.

Everyone had ordered what they wanted for dinner and insisted on paying for their individual meals by the expedient method of dropping twenty-quid notes into an emptied bowl of nibbles. By the look of the mounting pile of cash, the waiting staff would be sharing a hefty tip between them at the end of the evening. It was turning out to be a very casual affair as tables of different sizes were moved together and people table-hopped, taking their plates with them. The noise level was increasing with the sound of the music, the chatter of people speaking above the ambient din and, much to Greg's relief, echoing laughter. Freddy moved from one group to the next, ensuring everyone had a drink and had even joined in a robust discussion on the perils of wearing cosmetics at work. He wasn't sure what she'd said, but Sally seemed to think it slightly outrageous, given the looked of shocked amusement on her face. Everything seemed to be going according to plan and Greg started to relax.

"And a pleasant evening was had by all, it seems," an unmistakable low voice murmured by his ear.

Greg blinked slowly as he smiled. "Hello Sherlock," he turned, grinning at the taller man. Beside him, John stood, looking around with a cheerful expression. "You found the time in your busy schedule to get here, then," Greg led them both to the bar and caught the barman's attention. "Anything these guys want is on me," he said, turning back to John. "Have whatever you want, and take a butcher's at a menu," Greg looked around, trying to find one. "There were dozens of the things here a minute ago."

"Not sure if we'll be staying that long," Sherlock fixed him with a narrowed glance. "John insisted we make an appearance."

"Yeah, okay, Mr Tactful," John accepted a pint of real ale and took a long pull. "Just because you don't need to eat more than once in a blue moon doesn't mean I plan on starving myself, here," he handed over a tall glass of champagne to his taller companion. "Get that down your throat while I go find a menu. I'm starving."

Sniffing before he took a sip of the pale fizzy, Sherlock nodded approvingly as the chilled wine crossed his palate. "Whoever chose this did you good service," he commented, lifting the slender flute to eye-level, assessing the fine bubbles.

"That would be Freddy; she knows about that kind of thing," Greg looked around for a small figure in scarlet, spotting her over in the corner, talking entirely too seriously with Sally Donovan. He wondered if that boded terribly well for him, given Sal's current self-appointed role of wedding despot. "Hang on," he flashed a smile at John. "I'll get her. I'd like you to meet her before either of you vanish." By the expression on Donovan's face as she spotted Holmes and Watson over Greg's shoulder, she was surprised they'd bothered to turn up, but she shrugged, said nothing and went off to find another conversation.

"Freddy," Greg held her hand and smiled as he brought her back to the two men at the bar. He looked first at Sherlock, then at John. "I'd very much like you to meet Sherlock Holmes who works as a consultant with me at the Yard, and his associate, Dr John Watson. And this," he said, grinning with undisguised delight as he slid an arm around her shoulders. "Is the amazing Dr Freddy Kerr; surgeon, chemist, apothecary, landscape gardener and partner in renovation," he grinned even more widely. "Who, incredible as it might sound, seems to find me just as fanciable as I find her."

"Chemist?" Sherlock ignored his champagne as his eyebrow twitched. "Organic? Molecular?"

"And good evening to you too, Mr Holmes." Freddy took the glass of fizzy Greg handed to her and offered the latecomers a radiant smile. "Analytical, actually. I'm currently researching the medical applications of cannabinoid derivatives."

"Actual Cannabis?" John sipped his beer and looked curious.

"Hemp oil," Freddy tasted her champagne and shook her head. "Whatever I come up with needs to be available in trace amounts in the whole plant to make any medicinal product viable. I don't have the research funding that the big Pharma organisations do," she shrugged fractionally. "I've had some interesting results so far, though nothing momentous just yet. Time will tell."

"I was sorry to hear about Professor Armstrong," Sherlock's gaze flicked around the room, assessing the general atmosphere. "I never met the man though I read several of his more recent papers. He was a dedicated individual."

"He was indeed," Freddy nodded, her tone flattening. "I miss him very much."

"Greg tells us that you and he have been renovating a house in Pimlico," John interjected a change of subject before the mood was entirely slaughtered. "Is it close to the river? There's some fine houses down that way."

"We're about two minutes from Grosvenor Street; not far from Chelsea Bridge," Freddy smiled again. "Once we've finished the house and I've had a chance to do some work on the garden, Greg and I will be having a house-warming party; you must come, of course."

"We will?" Greg sounded surprised. It was the first he'd heard of any housewarming. "I mean, we will," he nodded freely. "I'm just so used to seeing all the things that need to be done around the place, I've lost sight of the fact that we're very nearly done. Only Freddy's walled garden to take care of now, that and selling the top-floor apartment, of course."

"The walled garden property in Westmoreland Place?" Sherlock sounded intrigued. "There are very few such architectural residences remaining in inner London," he continued as if he knew all about the Pimlico house. But then, Greg realised, Sherlock had probably made a study of all kinds of historical places in the city.

"Yeah, that's the one," Greg sipped his beer. "It was in a pretty poor state when we started but it looks amazing now. We should get a decent price for the penthouse apartment when we finally stick it on the market."

"With property prices in Westminster the way they are these days," Sherlock sounded entirely knowledgeable. "Anything over the size of a large shoebox should realise a very decent profit, which will, no doubt, go some way to relieving your increasing financial worries," he smiled briefly at Greg before eying the scallops and chips John had ordered.

Freddy's eyes turned immediately to her fiancé's. "You're worried about money?"

Throwing Sherlock a dirty look, Greg attempted to pour oil on troubled waters. "Not worried, not _really_ ," he said, promising himself that he'd kick the lanky git's arse from one side of London to the other if his unguarded comment did anything to upset Freddy tonight of all nights. "We're running a bit tight on some things, but we're still fine to get the top flat done as we'd planned, so there's absolutely nothing to get worked up over," he added calmly, as if any financial issues were of the most minimal concern.

"And how do you know Greg's worried about money?" Freddy redirected her attention to Sherlock, her gaze shrewd and entirely focused. "Since I didn't know, I'm very interested to find out how you did."

"No, you really don't," John ate a chip, shaking his head emphatically. "Don't get him star ..."

"Instead of describing the visual improvements or scenic values of the renovated house, your fiancé moved directly to an observation of the potential profit of the forthcoming apartment sale, a common reflection whenever negative financial issues are in the wind," Sherlock flashed another of his lightning smiles at Freddy. "That the inspector is feeling uncomfortable with such a financial responsibility is relatively straightforward to deduce, given that this will be only the second time in his life he has ventured into the realm of a major property expenditure and likely this will be the first time where he's speculated in such a grand manner, hence his concern would be both for his heavy financial investment, as well as the increasingly pressing desire to put paid to such a monetary commitment. The tension between those two issues alone is sufficient to make any normal person somewhat edgy, however there is a second, and even more compelling reason for his disquiet."

Blinking in surprise as such a blunt analysis, Freddy ignored the deliberate squeeze Greg gave her hand, as well as John's theatrical eye-roll. "And the second reason?"

"That would be yourself," Sherlock nodded again, confident in his appraisal of the situation. "Your fiancé is torn between wanting to impress you with his handling of the financial situation, even though he is already considering resorting to usurious credit in order to meet that expectation. _Ergo_ ," Sherlock stole a fried scallop from John's plate. "He is worried about money."

"How do you know about the credit idea?" Greg's forehead wrinkled. He hadn't even talked to Freddy about the snazzy bathroom suite yet. "Not that it's any of your bloody business, I might add."

"By the expedient method of looking into your jacket pocket," Sherlock sighed long-sufferingly, plucking out the pamphlet the bathroom salesman had given him. "Really, Inspector, if you must carry leaflets advertising loan schemes in your pocket, then you must expect to be observed doing so."

"Ah," Freddy blinked slowly, pressing her lips together as she digested the moment. Patting the back of Greg's hand as it held her own before he was able to protest his innocence. She smiled distantly. "I can see why you'd be such a valuable asset to the police, Mr Holmes," she looked reflective. "And why Greg speaks so highly of you. I do hope you'll be able to come to the wedding."

"You do?" Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "He does? You do?"

"I do. He does and we both do," Freddy laughed lightly, glancing at John. "Any friend of my future husband is a friend of mine."

"Friend?" Sherlock blinked rapidly, slightly lost.

"Come and have something to eat and get your brain rebooted," John sighed at the taller man's expression, privately relieved that Sherlock hadn't actually set the cat among the pigeons, though Greg might have a little explaining to do. "And then we'll be off, I think," John nodded, raising his glass to both Greg and Freddy. "Congratulations to the pair of you," he smiled, genuinely pleased. "Anyone who can withstand Sherlock in full-on deductive flood is a keeper, Greg," he winked. "Thanks for the invite. I'll see if I can keep His Highness in sane mode until next week. See you then!" The sudden absence of the two men left something of a vacuum and Freddy inhaled slowly.

"Honest, love," Greg looked down at her. "It was just an idea I was going to discuss with you later, which is why I had the leaflet with me," closing his eyes, he shook his head. "Bloody Sherlock. He does that every time."

"And yet you like and admire him a great deal, don't you?" Freddy was not deceived by his mildly anguished expression. "You consider him a true friend."

"Yeah, I do, for my sins," Greg was smiling now. "Prat that he is."

"Then I shall like him too," Freddy rested her fingers on his cheek. "Though perhaps not all at once."


	6. The last day in June

It was a beautiful dawn. Greg stood in his pyjama bottoms in front of the central window in the bedroom, staring out at the glow of the rising sun. By the time it went down tonight, he'd be a married man. As the thought settled in his head, he smiled, turning his head to look at the duvet-covered form still asleep in the bed behind him. On any other day, he'd have been tempted to crawl back in under the covers and wake Freddy in the way he knew she enjoyed. But not today. Today was special. Today was his last wedding day; he'd never have another. And at _that_ thought, his stomach shimmied with excitement. Slinging a robe around his shoulders, he left the room quietly, heading to the kitchen for a bracing cup of coffee. He'd leave Freddy sleep a bit more; it was going to be a long day.

As the fragrance of freshly-made coffee filled the air, there was the sound of footsteps on the small staircase leading up for the ground floor. "Are you decent?"

"Come on up, Gwennie," Greg reached for a second mug. "I've just made coffee."

"Freddy still asleep?" Swathed in her own long dressing gown, Gwendoline took a seat, wrapping her hands around the warm china, relishing the heat.

"Yeah. There's no need to wake her just yet," Greg rubbed a hand over his stubble. He'd need a proper shave today, a real good one. "What's the first item on the agenda?"

Gwendoline smiled as she sipped the hot drink. "Nothing too dramatic," she said. "As soon as Freddy's up and about, she's coming downstairs with me until the car arrives for us at one-fifteen. I assume you've got your own plans before we meet you at the church?

Grinning, Greg ducked his head. "One or two things to get sorted, yeah," he swigged some coffee. "Sally's coming over about twelve to make sure I remembered to wear underpants and still know how to tie a tie, and then we'll be heading off to St Mary's to get there around two-ish," he stood, suddenly restless. "I think I'll treat myself to a session at the barbers this morning," he added, rubbing his jawline again.

"I'm sure you'll look absolutely splendid, dear boy," Gwendoline smiled understandingly. "And it's always a good idea to keep oneself occupied at times like this, as long as you don't overdo things; this is a day for the both of you to enjoy and remember. It should be a wonderful one for that reason alone."

Rinsing his mug under the tap, Greg spoke over his shoulder. "I've never really thanked you for all the hard work you've done for Freddy and me," he said. "Ever since the hospital, really, you've always been there for both of us and it's made things really easy to manage," he paused, meeting her eyes. "I wanted you to know that, even if I don't always say anything at the time, that all the stuff you've done for me and Freddy has been amazing, it really has and I have appreciated it all. Thank you, Gwendoline, you've been wonderful."

"Oh, such nonsense," she blinked rapidly and took a swift sip of coffee, watching through slightly misted eyes as Greg went to a small drawer and pulled out a thin flat box. "This is a little thank you from me," he added, sliding it across the table.

"Oh Gregory, my dear, there's no need, really ..."

"Yeah, there is," he said firmly. "You've been a real brick these last few months and I know I don't always do a good job of saying thank you, but maybe, when you wear this, you'll know that I hold you in very high regard."

"That's perfectly adorable of you to say, and thank you," the old woman smiled as she lifted the lid. Inside was a delicate filigree gold bracelet, hinged to be easily opened and closed. It was a beautiful piece of goldsmithing and Greg had known, as soon as he'd seen it, that it was for Gwennie.

"My goodness," she whispered, lifting the delicate bangle carefully from its velvet nest and closing it around her right wrist. The gold gleamed in the early morning sunlight. "It's absolutely exquisite, Gregory," she smiled, turning to him and patting the back of his hand. "I shall wear it today and tell everyone who asks where it came from. This is such a lovely thoughtful gift, thank you, my dear."

"What are you thanking Greg for at this time of the day?" yawning, Freddy padded into the kitchen in bare feet, lured by the scent of coffee and the sound of voices.

"For this," Gwendoline lifted her arm. "I shall wear this the entire day."

Blinking to clear her eyes of sleep, Freddy peered closer at the bracelet. "Blimey, Mummy, that's gorgeous," she smiled and turned to her fiancé. "You're such a nice man," she leaned against his body and nuzzled his chest as Greg brought an arm around to hold her against him.

"You say that now," he rumbled. "Wait until I've been out working all the hours of day and night and come home stinking of sewerage and river mud," he kissed the top of her head fondly.

"What shall I make us for breakfast?" Gwendoline sat up straight. "I have a sudden yen for pancakes."

Greg laughed. "Careful now, Gwennie or I'll have to make it a matching pair."

###

With something filling in his stomach, Greg watched, amused, as his affianced, with wildly rolling eyes, was hauled away downstairs in her dressing gown to be there when her sisters arrived from their hotel. At first, Gwendoline and Freddy had wanted them to stay in the house, but there simply wasn't sufficient furniture ready yet for a pile of visitors, and there was also Henri and little Cosette to think about as well, not that the child was all that little any more. Considering that both her parents were of medium height or less, their daughter was already showing signs of future tallness. There'd been something of a family reunion the previous night where Greg had been a little swamped by the collective Kerr _joie de vivre_.

Margot, the youngest at twenty-six, had flown in from Switzerland, a petite figure with the widest smile he'd seen on such a small woman. They'd hit it off immediately, her lithe form rarely still and her long brown hair tied up messily in a loose knot at the back of her head. Louise and Henri arrived at the house shortly afterwards, with their daughter running around the bare garden, imagining mazes and magical forests while the grownups chatted. Seeing the three sisters together, one could never mistake them for anything else, Greg observed, though Margot had been experimenting with her hair colour as it had long blondish streaks. Henri Cissac was a dark, quiet man, who said little, but his expression was relaxed and content and it was clear that Louise doted on him and their child.

After Freddy's forced departure and finally alone in the flat, Greg made his plans for the morning. Shower, head to the barbers, back at the house in plenty of time to get dolled up before Sally arrived for her final inspection, before they headed off to Harrow in plenty of time for pre-ceremony jitters. About to lay out his new suit on the bed together with the snazzy waistcoat she'd picked out for him, he realised his sergeant's insistence that he get something new to wear had been the right thing to do. The thought of going to his wedding in anything less than his smartest would have been to lessen all the work that Gwennie had done for them both. He sniffed the _boutonnieres_ she'd left for him and Sally on the kitchen table: a hint of green leaf, with semi-open white roses nestled inside a few tiny white flowers, star-like and almost without fragrance.

Freddy had tidied up before she left and, lying on his side of the bed, was a carefully-wrapped package. A small card bearing his name lay on the top and he found himself smiling again. Ripping into the careful wrapping, Greg pulled out two pairs of thick socks. Looking more closely, he laughed as he saw the words 'for cold feet' knitted into both of them. Packed in between the two pairs was a small box, with yet another card. Inside the box was an antique pair of silver and mother-of-pearl cufflinks which would go perfectly with his new shirt.

 _I love you_ , she'd written on the card. He felt his insides tremble with a strange emotional response and he had to take a couple of deep breaths to settle himself. At this rate, Gwennie wouldn't be the only one having a bit of a weep at the wedding. Clearing his throat, Greg scowled at himself in the mirror in a manly fashion and headed for the shower.

Dressing quickly in light, casual gear, he ran quietly down the back staircase and out through the garden doors at the rear of the downstairs kitchen. He had no idea what might be going on in the ground floor apartment with all the Kerr women and he had no intention of interrupting them. Hopping into the BMW, he headed over to Luli's in Tachbrook Street, the place still mostly empty because of the early hour. The two barbers, Joss and Micha, were still in the process of getting things ready for customers when Greg walked in wearing a big grin.

"Morning lads," he looked around the bright shop and grinned even harder, a feeling of incredible happiness welling up in his chest. "I'm getting married this afternoon and I'd appreciate having the works please," he looked at himself in one of the large wall mirrors and scratched his face. "I need a decent shave at the very least."

The men smiled broadly, laughing at his obvious good humour and, after seating him in one of the vastly comfortable red leather chairs, went about getting him ready for his big day. Feeling himself relax under the steamy hot towels on his face, Greg closed his eyes and drifted under the chatter of weddings and football and the latest political scandal as his face was rubbed and brushed and oiled and finally shaved with an old fashioned open razor. In fact, he was shaved twice before his jaw was rinsed of any traces of soap and a cooling balm smoothed over his skin. Stroking his fingertips down one cheek, Greg realised he'd not had a shave this close for years. He hoped Freddy would like it.

As he was sitting in the chair, wrapped in a towel, Joss came back at him with an electric razor and touched up the hair at the nape of his neck and around his ears, not that he really needed a haircut.

"In case you need any of these for later," Joss winked outrageously, laughing as he slipped a handful of condoms into Greg's pocket.

Grinning and shaking his head, Greg left a tip as he paid and headed back out to the car. Checking his watch, he was surprised to see it was barely ten o'clock. Sally wasn't coming over to the house for another two hours and the idea of sitting all alone in the flat, twiddling his thumbs gave him the heebie-jeebies. Deciding to go for a coffee and something light to eat, knowing he probably wouldn't be eating much until dinner that night. He and Freddy had decided to spend their wedding night at the Connaught in Mayfair where their luggage for Scotland was already waiting for them.

Freddy had wanted their first married night to be away from the Pimlico house to mark it as even more special that it already would be and Greg had been delighted to fall in with her plans. After a night of luxury, they were booked onto the ten-fifteen from Kings Cross to Coldstream, where they'd be met by one of Freddy's Scottish cousins. Following several phone calls and emails, they'd decided to rent a tiny, one-bedroom cottage just out of the centre of Kelso itself. And then they'd have nearly a fortnight in Border country to do with as they pleased.

Greg smiled to himself again as he drove around the corner to Charlwood Place and parked opposite a proper Italian coffee shop where they made the creamiest cappuccino and a range of unspeakably sticky cakes. He was in the mood to indulge himself a little and sat for a while, sipping his frothy coffee, nibbling something sweet with ginger and dark chocolate in it. He felt enormously at peace with the world and so full of happy excitement, he could barely keep a smile off his face. He wanted to tell everyone in the café that he was getting married that very afternoon to an amazing woman, but somehow managed to keep a lid on things as he finished his coffee. Checking the time, he realised he still had an hour to spare but couldn't think of anything else to do, so he headed back to the house.

Re-entering the flat as quietly as he'd left, he heard no noises from downstairs, but then, he'd made sure the building had been well insulated in the thick walls and floors. He smiled to himself, imagining the kind of things the women were probably up to. Heading straight to his bedroom, he took a deep breath and waited for his heart rate to calm, which it seemed to have no intention of doing. _Right then_. Two could play at that game. Walking back into the kitchen, he yanked the fridge open and pulled out one of several bottles of champagne that had been chilling for days in case someone felt like a celebratory drink. Given that it was his wedding day and that he appeared to be as giddy as a schoolgirl, he felt now was the perfect occasion. Popping the bottle with a carefree twist of his wrist, he poured out a glass of the icy fizz and took a sip. It was brilliant. In fact, everything was brilliant this morning. Alone in his kitchen, Greg smiled at nothing in particular until his face hurt.

Deciding to have another quick shower, he nevertheless took care over his ablutions, striding back into the bedroom in a sudden rush to get ready even though Sally wasn't due for another half-hour at the earliest. Dressing himself in new togs from the skin up, he remembered Freddy's gift and carefully twisted her cufflinks into place. They looked very distinguished, he thought. The trousers fit him well, though maybe a little more loosely around the waist than before. He grinned again, taking another swig of champagne. The palest yellow silk tie whispered around his neck with the greatest of ease, followed by the embroidered silk-grey waistcoat dotted with the merest suggestion of tiny white flowers. Pausing, he looked in the long cheval mirror for the first time and stopped dead. The man in the reflection was very different from the one he remembered seeing a year ago. This one seemed lighter somehow, more together. _Happier_. He smiled at himself and knocked back the last of the fizzy.

"Anyone at home?" Sally Donovan's voice echoed from the top of the stairwell.

"In here, getting dressed," Greg called back, tying his shined black shoes and collecting the suit jacket before heading into the kitchen.

"Well, _wow_ , if I say so myself," Sally looked impressed at her DCI's wedding ensemble, even though she'd helped him with the choosing of it.

"You've scrubbed up pretty well too, for a Best Person," Greg assessed Donovan's rich wine dress and fine silk jacket. Her hair was up, tied with a heavy silk ribbon the same colour as the dress. "You look very grand," he grinned at her. "Looks like everyone's going to be done up to the nines today."

"Yeah well," Sally frowned slightly as she checked him over. "Let's have a proper look," she said. "Put your jacket on."

"Yes, Mum," he slid into the jacket and shook it straight.

"You want me to pin this on?" Sally asked, holding up one of the boutonnieres.

"Yeah, better you than me. I've got a bad case of the fidgets this morning." Greg felt his heart thump again with excitement.

"Got everything you need? Clean hanky?" Donovan pinned the other flower onto her own jacket lapel and folded Greg's white handkerchief neatly into his breast pocket. Sliding her hand into her own pocket, she brought out a small box which she opened for his inspection. Two plain gold wedding rings nestled in white velvet. "Got your wallet? Give me your phone," she added, holding out her hand. "I'll give it you back at the reception, assuming you'll want it back, of course?" she grinned slyly.

"You got plenty of petrol in your waggon?" Greg felt his heart rate ratchet up another level as he realised it was nearly time for them to be heading off. "I really don't want to be late for my own wedding because we're out of juice."

"Yeah; filled up on the way here," Sally looked around. "We've still got a bit of time before we have to go. Want to give me a tour of the place? I haven't seen it since you did it up." she stared around curiously.

"Of course, yeah, sorry," Greg took a deep breath and headed back to the fridge where he unearthed the opened bottle of champagne. "I'm going to have a glass of this," he said. "Want one?"

"I'm driving," Sally shook her head, then smiled. "But maybe I can have a sip of yours."

"Yeah, sorry. Forgot," Greg shook his head and wondered why he felt so flustered all of a sudden. "Come on then," he waved her towards the main central passage of the apartment. "Let me show you around."

###

Freddy was sure she'd heard a car arrive and then leave nearly an hour later. She smiled; that would be Sally Donovan taking care of her part of the day. Greg was driving up to Harrow in Sally's car and after the wedding, they'd return to London by whatever means her mother had arranged.

"You look like a fairy princess, _Tante_ _Frédérique_ ," Cosette twirled joyously in her new bridesmaid's dress. In pale yellow chiffon, the child was a froth of sunshine.

"And you look very pretty too, mon poussin," Freddy smiled back, standing impatiently as Louise straightened her long veil for the umpteenth time.

"God, Freddy, you look stunning." Her younger sister had always been the kind one in the family. "Your man's not going to be able to look at anyone else today."

"That is the general idea," Gwendoline bustled over, a picture in aquamarine silk and gold jewellery, fussing over things that Louise had been fussing over for the last five minutes. "Oh, but you do look lovely, Freddy," she said finally, stepping back and admiring her eldest child. "Now, the cars should be here soon with Henri, so can everyone have a final check that we have everything they need for the rest of the day?" The sisters rolled their eyes at each other as Louise took her daughter off to the bathroom one last time.

"You really do look fabulous, Sis," Margot pinned up her hair yet again. "God, I wish I'd never washed this today; it refuses to behave at all," she grumbled.

"Leave it down, my love," Gwendoline looked pleased at how her family had turned out. "You'll be charming either way."

The sound of car engines arrived at the front of the house, followed shortly by the front door opening and Henri's voice announcing their chariots had arrived.

Having no real idea what to expect, Freddy made her careful way to the door and out onto the steps. A pair of shining black Rolls-Royce Silver Clouds, enormous things, complete with broad white wedding ribbons, rumbled softly in the driveway. They looked astonishing.

" _Mummy_ ," Freddy whispered, awed by the magnificence of the gleaming vehicles, their sleek and sweeping lines a hallmark of sheer luxury. "What did you have to sell to organise these for today?"

"Mr Lewis has a friend in the wedding car business," Gwendoline smiled, delighted. "It was his idea, actually."

Ushering her two younger daughters and Henri in the second car, Gwendoline helped Freddy into the first vehicle, ensuring her dress remained unmarked and uncreased. Cosette joined them, thrilled to be sitting on a special fold-down seat in the middle of the car. After ensuring the main house gates were locked, the two cars began their gentle peregrination towards Harrow. Though she said nothing, Freddy felt a little like royalty as people on the pavements stopped and watched the impressive wedding entourage wind its way out of London.

###

For a Saturday, the roads out of town were surprisingly empty of traffic, possibly because it was such a lovely day, everyone had decided to head for the coast, leaving the inland roads less crowded than usual. Greg was glad Sally was driving as he was having the worst case of a racing pulse and sweaty palms.

"You feeling alright?" Sally kept her eyes on the road ahead, but she couldn't help but notice Greg's predicament. He seemed a little pale. "Want me to find the nearest service station and toilet?"

Taking a slow deep breath, Greg made himself relax. "I'm just a bit excited," he confessed sheepishly. "I can't wait to see her."

Smiling, Donovan shook her head at her DCI's complete lack of cool. "There's plenty of time," she said. "Practice some breathing exercises before you implode or something." For the remainder of the drive to St Mary's, Greg did his best to get his emotions under control though he'd have been the first to admit he wasn't doing a terribly good job of it.

They pulled into a packed carpark outside the church, with cars lining the side street and some of them even half-up on the kerb. Had Greg not recognised several of the vehicles as belonging to Yarders, he thought the local plods would have had a field day.

"Christ," he muttered, getting out of Sally's car and looking around at the mass of vehicles, some of them pretty swanky. "Looks like Gwennie's invited half the county."

"Let's get you inside then," Sally patted him on the arm. "And let you have a chat with the vicar while you're waiting."

Reverend Polglaze was already waiting at the main entrance dressed in pristine vestments of white and gold, a pleased smile on his face. "I thought you might be arriving about now," he said, checking his watch, confirming the time. "Do you want to come and sit in the vestry for a little while, or go straight in to the front seat?"

Taking another deep breath as his pulse headed north once again, Greg squared his shoulders. It was about time his brain took charge. "I think I may as well go and sit in the front and wait," he said, looking sideways at Sally. "You okay with that?"

"Ready when you are, Boss," she laughed softly. _Showtime_.

###

As the car travelled down roads she was beginning to recognise, Freddy felt her pulse start to thump. They were nearly there. It was almost time. She swallowed in a dry throat.

"There'll be one or two photographers waiting, I expect," Gwendoline glanced out of the car window. "The papers would undoubtedly have heard about such a high-profile wedding."

Her mother's words almost lost in the sudden thunder of her heart as the grand car they were in swung into a slow majestic circle almost directly in front of the church. Her mother was wrong. There were _four_ photographers, apart from the official wedding photographer, waiting in the grassy churchyard beside the stone pathway.

Looking around, Freddy felt close to tears as she took in the mass of flowers and long white ribbons everywhere; adorning every gate and pillar, even the outside of the church's main entrance. Her favourites; white scabiosa, white roses, Stephanotis and the sweet fragrance of white Sweet Pea, exactly the same as her wedding bouquet. _Her mother had done all this ..._

"It's all so beautiful, Mummy," she whispered. "It makes me want to cry."

"No crying just yet, dear," Gwendoline patted her shoulder as she straightened Freddy's long veil. "Gregory will think you've changed your mind."

The official photographer had Freddy and Cosette and Gwendoline stand in various poses as Henri went inside to give Greg, the vicar and the organist the nod. Finally, all the preliminary photos were done.

"Ready, darling?" Gwendoline squeezed her daughter's hand, and looked down at little Cosette who wore the biggest grin as she held her own small posy of flowers. Walking to the church entrance, Freddy took a deep breath, stiffened her spine and lifted her chin, reaching across to hold her mother's fingers.

From playing Bach, the organ began the processional music, Mouret's _Rondeau_ as had been agreed, the lovely lilting strains joyful and happy, yet still solemn and traditional. Her emotions whirling between pride and excitement and happiness at being here, in this place, on this day, Freddy walked down the aisle holding her mother's hand, as every soul in the packed church stood and every face turned to welcome the bride.

###

Greg heard distant murmuring and turned his head just enough to see Henri stride down the aisle to nod both at him and the vicar who in turn, gestured to the organist in the organ loft. There was a distinct and palpable change in the atmosphere as the music moved smoothly from one lot of classical music into something entirely different, something more _important_. Even without looking, Greg knew that Freddy had arrived at the entrance of the church. He swallowed convulsively, his heart pounding and his throat dry like a desert. He'd not been this nervy at his first wedding, so why he was having an attack of the vapours today, he had no clue.

Moving across to the centre of the nave, directly in front of the alter, Reverend Polglaze gestured for Greg to stand, just as the rest of the congregation rose silently to their feet and the organist kept the music coming. Unable to wait a single second longer, Greg turned his head to watch his bride approach, his whole body shivering at the sight.

 _She looked like a dream, something from a dream_. All in white, a small figure in a long white dress, so simple and yet so beautiful, a long veil held to her dark hair with a tiara of pearls and pearls at her throat. Greg's eyes focused on Freddy's face to meet her burning gaze as she walked sedately towards him.

His brain processed flashes of other things: the pleasure and pride on Gwennie's face; the perfume of massed flowers decorating every part of the church; the bright colours of the women's finery, Donovan's murmured words at his side ... but he could only deal with these distractions in shifting moments as his entire focus was on the woman who had come here today to marry him and love him and keep him for the rest of his life. He swallowed again as his eyes fogged. _Freddy_.

She had forgotten just how terribly handsome Greg looked when he wanted to impress, Freddy felt his eyes on her as soon as she walked towards the front of the church. Only a few more steps and ... She looked directly towards him and felt an incredible desire to laugh and cry and smile and to run to him; the expression on his face one of bewildered delight as he stood there for her, so tall, so self-possessed. And he would be all hers now, hers forever.

As she drew level with him at the front of the alter, Freddy felt she was in a dream, handing her bouquet to Cosette who danced away to sit at her mother's side.

Greg watched, dazed almost, as Gwendoline passed him Freddy's right hand and stepped close to kiss his cheek before she too took her seat.

And then it was just the two of them and the Reverend Polglaze who spoke for a little while, his words brushing the edges of their happiness. There was singing of something and more words, a reading of some kind. There were questions and Greg remembered saying things he'd said once before, a very long time before, but this time, each syllable burned as he voiced them, his every response carved into stone as soon as they were spoken. And then there were rings in his hand, rings he placed in the pages of an open book. And he was holding Freddy's hand and sliding one of the rings onto her finger and then she slid a ring onto his hand and it was done.

"In the presence of God, and before this congregation, Gregory and Frederica have given their consent and made their marriage vows to each other. They have declared their marriage by the joining of hands and by the giving and receiving of rings. I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife ..."

Gazing down into the brilliantly happy face of the woman who'd filled his heart before he'd known anything about it, Greg smiled, dazed, as Freddy stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Of their own accord, his arms slid around her body and held her close as he kissed her back, gently and with respect for the wonder that she had brought him today.

As their embrace eased apart and their arms relaxed, Greg felt suddenly and wholly at ease for the first time in days, a warm heaviness, as he and Freddy turned together to look once again at the people around them.


	7. Chapter 7

Roxeth Priory was only three minutes by car from St Mary's, but Greg reckoned it took them nearly an hour to get there. Between signing the church register and waiting for Freddy's mum and Donovan to sign as witnesses, then heading out into the bright afternoon sunshine for both the official and unofficial photographs of which there seemed to be an endless number, the time vanished before they knew it. So it wasn't until just after four when the newlyweds arrived at their reception and stood at the door, shaking the hands of everyone who came to wish them well. Gwendoline introduced her new son-in-law to various people and seemed reluctant to abandon her self-appointed post of Inspector of All Things. Despite the fact that she was doing her 'bit' as she saw it, Greg found her desire to help heavy going after a while, even though he knew she meant well.

"Lovely day for it," John Watson smiled as he squeezed Freddy's fingers gently. "I must say, you had everything beautifully organised."

"Freddy's mum." Despite himself, Greg couldn't stop grinning. Now that the pressure was off, he felt like he was flying. "She's a fiend at getting things done, seriously, don't mess with Gwennie."

"I had a Colour Sergeant like that once," John nodded understandingly.

"And a fine individual he was, I'm sure," Gwendoline appeared like a genie whose lamp had been rubbed. "Delighted to meet you, Dr Watson. I am Gwendoline Kerr, mother of the bride."

"Good afternoon, Mrs Kerr, a pleasure," Sherlock appeared from nowhere with impeccable timing to shake her hand. "Are you by any chance related to General Sir George Kerr of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?"

"George was my husband's grandfather," Gwendoline looked surprised. "What an odd question."

"The Fifth?" it was John's turn to look surprised. "That's my old regiment."

"You were in George's regiment? What rank?"

"Captain, Medical Corps."

With a brief, though terribly meaningful look at Greg, Sherlock steered both John and Gwendoline away towards the bar.

"God help me, but I'm going to owe him something for that," Greg lifted his eyebrows as he watched his newly acquired mother-in-law's retreating back before meeting Freddy's warm gaze. He inhaled hard and held out an elbow towards her. "Come, Wife," he commanded, when the last hands had been properly shaken. "We must mingle amongst the gathered peasantry."

"Such an idiot," smiling, Freddy took his arm and did as she was bade, mingling as well as they could, given the fact they were constantly being sucked into loud, chatty conversations with more photographs and toasts. Having done one half of the large room, Greg pulled her close, pointing out an older woman standing by one of the tall French windows.

"Come on, I want you to have a chat with my Aunty Jean; she's about all the family I've got left these days."

"You look proper handsome you do, the pair of you," Jean Lestrade, widow of Greg's only paternal uncle, was all smiles as the bridal couple stood beside her. "And such a lovely dress for a June wedding," she shook her head as she admired Freddy's gown at close quarters. "And such pearls!" her eyes widened as she took in the tiara and necklace.

"Not mine, I hasten to say," Freddy smiled. "Both borrowed items, I'm afraid."

But still," Jean Lestrade sounded deeply impressed. "You don't see many things like that these days," she said. "It's all fake glitz and paste, not the real thing at all. Proper posh you look," she added, smiling knowledgably.

"Aunty Jean was Props Mistress at the BBC for years, weren't you Jean? Knows all about looking the part." Intrigued, Freddy immediately launched into a discussion of period costumes while Greg went to fetch everyone a glass of bubbly.

It was only later, as people were beginning to help themselves to a splendid buffet, that Greg managed to get Freddy to himself for a few minutes. Putting a finger to his lips for silence, he pulled her quickly through the French doors and into a rose-laden arbour.

"Is something the matter?" Freddy looked concerned.

"Yeah, there is," Greg checked they were not being observed. "I've been dying to do this all day but haven't had a single chance," he said, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her breathless. "Oh yes," he breathed. "Just what I've been wanting." Holding her tighter, he kissed her again with a thoroughness that left her limp in his arms.

"My god, _behave_ ," Freddy struggled to find her feet and fend him off whilst trying not to laugh. "We've still got hours of polite socialising to get through."

Greg chose not to voice his thoughts on that score, but contented himself with holding Freddy close and breathing her in. All his senses seemed to be inflamed today and the colours and scents and the feel of her in his arms was enough, for some reason, to send him very nearly over the top. "I love you," he whispered against her throat. "I can't believe how much I love you."

"Mummy said I wasn't to cry in case you thought I'd changed my mind," she whispered back. "But I feel as if I'm just one huge mass of emotions. Do you think there might be the faintest chance we could leave early?"

"Christ, yes, I hope so," Greg searched for her lips again, and Freddy offered no resistance to his urgent embrace as he held her close and took his time stoking the fires of their mutual desire.

Freddy pushed him away gently. "If we don't stop now," she husked. "I'm going to embarrass myself by getting really bad grass stains on this pretty dress."

Laughing wickedly, Greg nevertheless made himself ease away. Taking several deep breaths, he flicked his attention to the pearl tiara. "Aunty Jean said this was real," he glanced again at the striking piece of jewellery. "Is it?"

"Yes, of course," Freddy brushed a crease from the skirt of her dress. "Not mine, obviously. Mummy borrowed it from a friend of hers, I believe."

"Your mother has a duchess for a friend?" Greg joked.

"One of several that I know of," Freddy was entirely sincere. "You met her today. Elizabeth Warren."

"Betty?" Greg sounded scandalised. "Elizabeth, 'Call me Betty' Warren, who told me a story about driving a tank for a bet, is a _duchess_?"

"And quite a scandalous one at that," Freddy laughed, looking altogether too desirable for Greg's pulse rate. "Her Grace, the Lady Elizabeth Marguerite Fitzwilliam-Warren. The duke, her third husband, expired in her bed several years ago during a holiday in the Bahamas," she wrinkled her nose. "She owns at least one of the apartments at the Dolphin and she and mummy have been as thick as thieves for years. I'll tell you all about her later."

"All these disreputable women I'm suddenly getting to know," Greg dropped his eyelids as his voice became deliberately seductive. "I do love a scandalous woman," he murmured, pulling her close again, his intent perfectly clear.

Meeting his gaze full-on, Freddy raised her eyebrows and shook her head in mild exasperation. "Later," she said, firmly, smiling despite herself.

"Spoilsport," Greg smiled back as he kissed the side of her neck. "Later, then."

Ah, and there the pair of you are!" An older man with something of a military bearing turned with a genuine smile as he watched them re-enter the main reception area. "Wondered where you'd got to."

"Ah, we were just ..." Greg let his gesture towards the open French windows speak for itself.

"I'm sure you were," the man smiled knowingly.

"It's lovely that you were able to make the wedding, Sir Reginald," Freddy was smiling too. "It's been a long time since that dinner at the Ritz."

"Oh, _Reggie_ , these days, please, Freddy," he made a deprecating face. "Indeed, my dear, I haven't had an opportunity to speak to your good mother for far too long," he smiled down at her before turning his attention to Greg. "Gwendoline tells me you've just made DCI in the Met," he said. "Well done, old chap. Can't be an easy billet these days."

Greg's brain had been jumping up and down as he watched Freddy charm this total stranger, realising that the man couldn't possibly _be_ a stranger to the family if he was at the wedding and on such first-name terms with the Kerrs. Besides, he'd shaken the guy's hand at the door as he came in, though the name was completely gone. Who on earth was 'Reggie'..? And why was he asking about the Yard? After a bit of pointed prodding, his brain delivered the goods.

"I don't think any police job can be considered easy these days, Sir Reginald," Greg adopted a suitably composed expression as one did when chatting with Hertfordshire's Chief Constable. "At least we're able to bring technology to bear these days," he smiled unassumingly. "Though there's still a lot of grunt-work at the heart of it all."

"Oh, that's far too modest," Reginald-call-me-Reggie shook his head, frowning slightly. "I hear some very good things about you, and not only from Freddy's mother, I can tell you."

"Really?" Greg was about to ask who else they had as a mutual acquaintance when an elegant, middle-aged woman dressed in deep rose-pink silk, slid her hand through Sir Reginald's elbow, passing him a fresh glass of champagne.

"How lovely to finally meet you, Chief Inspector," she said, holding out her empty hand. "I'm Moira Jarsdel, Reggie's other half. Gwendoline's been telling me all about your brave exploits in the face of that madman with the shotgun," she looked askance at Freddy. "Both of you," she added. "So brave. Clearly made for one another."

"Moira and I'll be down in town again next month," Sir Reginald sipped his wine. "We thought it might be the perfect time to invite you two out to dinner," he added. "Nothing special, just a quiet table at the Dorchester," he said, lifting his eyebrows as he looked between them.

"I think that would be super, Reggie, as long as it won't put my husband in a difficult position with his colleagues in the Met?" Freddy turned to Greg, assessing his expression. If he wanted to refuse, she would have seen it in his face.

 _Dinner with a Chief Constable and his missus?_ Greg grinned. Not remotely interested in climbing any social ladder, but, as Freddy's partner, he realised he would inevitably encounter the rich and privileged. "I think we'd both enjoy that, sir. Gwendoline shared a few things about your exploits during the Olympics."

A fiercely pleased smiled shaping his face, Jarsdel nodded with some enthusiasm. "Did she now? Delighted to tell you anything you like," he said, finishing the fizzy. "Delighted."

"Then I'll be in touch when I have the dates we'll be in town," Moira Jarsdel nodded. "I'll organise a table for the four of us."

"Thank you," Greg looked over his shoulder at the, as-yet, unmingled part of the room. "And now we must continue doing the rounds, I believe."

"That's the style, my boy," Jarsdel looked satisfied. "An officer and a gentlemen."

"You handled that rather well," Freddy murmured as she and Greg headed over to the bar for drinks. "Just a soda water for me, please," she said. "I've had more than enough alcohol for a while."

"Lightweight," Greg looked down at his bride. "You called me your husband, in public," he said, his eyes glittering. "I'm feeling more than slightly aroused."

"Then perhaps we should finish saying hello to everyone and get changed," she said. "When people see us in street clothes, they won't be surprised when we get ready to leave."

"You sure you don't mind leaving your own wedding reception early?" Greg wanted to be absolutely positive he wasn't spoiling anything for her. "The music and dancing and the party is just about to kick off."

"Positive," Freddy held his hands in hers. "You know how I feel about dancing these days and anyway, I've just about had enough of crowds for the day," she met his gaze, blinking slowly and deliberately. "I could do with being somewhere altogether more quiet."

"The lady's wish is my command," Greg knocked back his half-empty glass of champagne and tugged Freddy with him to press the flesh with the last remaining group of well-wishers.

By the time they'd done a complete circuit of the entire room, the music was starting, as the tables were cleared away from the dance floor area and the lights dimmed. Greg took Freddy in his arms and waltzed her carefully around the parquet for about a thirty seconds before he held up his hands and laughingly told the watching audience that he and Freddy had done their bit and now it was up to everyone else. Taking that as a clear instruction, the young man in charge of the music hit the room with Kool and The Gang. It was already well into dusk outside, as the bridal couple headed into a small private sitting room where a suitcase contained a change of clothes for them both. Helping his new bride out of her perfect wedding gown, Greg stopped dead when he saw what was underneath it.

"Christ on a bike," he groaned softly as the white satin corset, suspenders and stockings were revealed. "You wore that deliberately to give me a heart attack before we even get out of here," he accused, his fingers twitching as he imagined the feel of the soft white fabric against his fingertips.

"Nonsense," Freddy airily dismissed his complaint as she moved backwards and forwards, unpacking her going-away clothes. Lifting and shaking them free of any wrinkles, real or imagined, she seemed wholly unaware of Greg's heated expression. "This was simply the most comfortable undergarment to wear under such a style of wedding dress," she said, continuing with the shaking and straightening of her light summer dress. Resting a foot on a low ottoman, she undid the tiny pearl buttons of one shoe, easing it off with great care. This done, she slowly smoothed both hands up her leg from ankle to thigh, straightening the stocking, repeating the action with the other foot. "That it might send you into a heaving passion was not something I considered for a single moment," she added, turning and walking close to him in stockinged feet with wide eyes and an artless smile. Staring up into Greg's hungry gaze, she raised an eyebrow. "Why? Do you like it?"

Standing slowly to his full height and inhaling long and low, he stared down his nose at his excessively virtuous-looking new wife. "Officer and a gentleman," he muttered, half to himself. "I hope that hotel room of ours has thick walls," he grinned down at her, the merest suggestion of wolf in his smile.

Changed into still-festive though somewhat less eye-catching street clothes and leaving their wedding outfits for Gwendoline to take back to the Pimlico house along with the wedding presents, the newlyweds headed back into the main reception room. Leading Freddy over to the DJ, Greg asked for a few minutes quiet.

"Freddy and I have an early start tomorrow morning, heading off to Scotland," holding his wife's hand, Greg made the announcement from the small dais which kept the music equipment out of the way of the dancers. "So I'm sure you'll all understand why we've decided to make a move now. I'm told this place is booked through until midnight, so please carry on with the party, as I know most of you will, especially you lot of trouble-makers at the back."

There were several loud catcalls, gestures and whistles from a group of Greg's colleagues at the bar, casting doubt, perhaps, on his explanation for an early departure. He grinned hugely, resisting the temptation to respond with a suitably articulate gesture of his own.

"It's been a marvellous day today, and we'd like to thank everyone who's been able to share it with us," he added, looking down at Freddy, raising his eyebrows to see if she wanted to say anything.

"We'll see everyone in a couple of weeks," she smiled around. "Which means there's only one thing left for me to do ..." Turning her back on the crowd, she lifted her small wedding bouquet high in the air for a moment, before throwing in backwards, into the mass of people. One of several hands shot up and the flowers sailed almost perfectly into a sure catch.

" _Oh my god_ ," Greg snorted with laughter as Sally Donovan looked as surprised to have caught the bouquet as other people did to see her do it. "That's bloody brilliant," he covered his mouth with both hands. "Oh, for a camera."

Judging by the number of mobiles being waved around and the waves of bright flashes, it was doubtful the moment went unrecorded.

One of the grand wedding cars was waiting at the Priory's main entrance, as everyone escorted the bridal couple outside, throwing handfuls of paper confetti and even white rice over their heads. There was a great deal of laughter and good humour in the air.

"Have a lovely time in Scotland, darlings," Gwendoline hurried forward from her place beside Mr Lewis to give them both a fervent hug and a kiss. "And don't worry about a thing here; I'll take care of your clothes and the presents, and everything will be waiting for you at the house when you get back."

"Just don't overdo it, Gwennie," Greg kissed the old woman's soft cheek. "And thank you for the most fantastic day. It's been amazing, it really has." Shaking Henri's hand and being hugged by the other Kerr sisters left him with a slightly dazed smile on his face.

"Goodbye, Mummy," Freddy hugged her mother and then her sisters. "Thank you for organising a truly magnificent day for us."

"Oh, my dear, _dear_ child," Gwendoline sounded on the verge of tears and Freddy felt her own eyes prickle. "See you at the end of next week," she whispered, hugging her mother again. "Everyone has been so wonderful."

Helping his bride in through the open car door, Greg turned, smiling, waving at everyone. "Don't call me, don't even text!" he shouted across at the group of Yarders, videoing the couple's departure. No doubt the entirety of Scotland Yard would be sick of seeing his face online by Monday lunchtime.

With a final round of called farewells and the flashes of camera, the car door slammed closed and the driver pulled gently away from the grouped spectators.

Heaving a massive sigh, Greg collapsed back against the soft leather seats, closing his eyes as he sought some kind of mental equilibrium after the wild day. "Everything's been fantastic, but I have to admit I'm bloody knackered," he sighed, blinking his eyes open but feeling suddenly too exhausted to move. When there was no immediate reply from the seat beside him, he turned his head.

To his utter dismay, Freddy was wiping quiet tears from her cheeks.

"Oh, _sweetheart_ ," he crooned, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and bringing her close to his chest. "Don't cry ... it was the most amazing day ... there's no need to cry, is there?" he looked at her, a little helplessly.

"I'm only happy," Freddy whispered, blotting her eyes, sniffing hard. "To be honest, I never really believed I'd ever have a wedding day of my own, and this one was simply so perfect that I just ..." she waved her hands, lost for the right words, close to weeping again.

"I know, darlin', I know," Greg smiled against the top of her head. "Truth be told, I was feeling a bit wobbly myself a few times today," he leaned back, smoothing strands of dark hair from Freddy's face and cradling her cheek in his hand. "It's been all up and down, hasn't it, and we've both been through some pretty heavy times, recently," he spoke calmly, meeting her eyes, still brilliant with tears. "Hardly any wonder if we're both a bit on the emotionally stretched side, is there?"

"I love you so very much," Freddy's heartfelt murmur pierced through to the very core of his emotions and it was Greg's turn to clench his jaw and struggle for composure. He covered her hand with his own and contented himself with holding her fingers tight.

The night lights of London were all on show for them on their journey back into town, the city sky sharp and pristine after such a clear day. Holding hands in silence, they lay back against the luxurious seat and watched, aimlessly, as the big car sped quietly through London's streets towards Mayfair.

"Mummy and daddy spent their wedding night at the Connaught," Freddy watched the street lights flash by. "I'm fairly sure she knows at least one of the Directors of the hotel; she always used to stay there if she was spending a few days in town."

"Your mother is amazing," Greg kissed the back of her hand. "Where she gets the energy from, at her age, I've no idea."

"It meant so much for her to be involved in all these arrangements," Freddy rested her head against his shoulder. "You have no idea how thrilling she found everything, how pleased she was to be considered actively useful. It was wonderful for her. It really was."

"Speaking of your mother," Greg pulled her closer into his arms, his chin resting on flower-scented hair. "Was it my imagination, or was she being very pally with old man Lewis?

There was a few seconds pause as Freddy examined the idea. "You know, I think she was, actually," she moved her head to meet Greg's amused gaze, a wide smile curving her mouth. "Oh my god. _Mummy and Mr Lewis_."

Grinning madly at the thought of the Kerr matriarch and the short Welshman as a couple, they almost missed the car turning into Carlos Place and the small but immaculate forecourt of one of London's greatest hotels. Waiting as the driver ceremoniously opened the rear door for them, Greg slipped the man a twenty with his thanks. As their luggage was already checked in, they allowed the uniformed doorman to guide them to the main reception desk.

"A booking in the name of Lestrade," Greg smiled politely at the well-groomed young man standing behind the classical wood-panelled reception desk at the foot of a seriously imposing staircase. The whole place, while undeniably posh, had more of a country home vibe to it rather than one of the more modern, exotic and yet soulless, chain hotels. The overall décor was very traditional and, given his current emotional tension, oddly comforting. Greg could almost feel the history of the place as he stood there, signing the registration card and waiting for the room keys. He would bet any money they had Bread-and-Butter pudding on the menu.

"Room 32, overlooking the inner courtyard," the young man beamed. "And may I be the first in the Connaught to offer our congratulations on your marriage," he added, smiling cheerfully at both of them. "While not the Bridal Suite, I'm sure you'll find your stay with us very comfortable. Your luggage is already in the room and we have a taxi booked for you tomorrow morning at nine-thirty to take you directly to Victoria Station in time for you to get to your Kings Cross connection at ten-fifteen. We have two excellent restaurants if you care to dine with us this evening, and there are three very different bars including the Champagne Room which might have a certain appeal, if you are in the mood for an aperitif or a cocktail," he smiled helpfully. "And, of course, our in-room dining menu is a-la-carte and offers a comprehensive wine list," he raised his eyebrows. "Is there anything else I can do for you at this time?" When both Freddy and Grey shook their heads, the receptionist directed them to the nearest lift. "I hope you have a very pleasant stay with us, Mr and Mrs Lestrade."

They held hands in the lift, though the journey was brief. Greg couldn't bear to be out of touching distance; his skin as needful of Freddy as was his heart. The ornate and richly green-grey patterned carpet in the hallway was so thick that all sound was muffled and mute. It felt as if the whole place was holding its breath. Finding their room, Greg slid the keycard into the electronic lock and pushed the heavy door open, allowing Freddy to enter before him.

Though not a suite by any means, it was a pleasantly large room, with a sizable bed in the middle, clad in luxurious-looking linens and duvet, heavy cushions and pillows. There was a small dining table and chairs in a corner to one side of a large sliding window which opened out onto a small balcony overlooking a Japanese-style courtyard. A solid-looking dressing table stood on the other side. A door leading to a frankly decadent ensuite bathroom stood opposite the window. Their luggage was sitting in two separate racks against the wall by the door.

Standing by the foot of the bed, his hands hanging loose and his shoulders slightly bowed with weariness, Greg looked at his wonderful new wife, backlit by the bathroom lights. Despite a hectic day, Freddy seemed to be regaining some of her vibrancy, while he blinked with mild exhaustion.

"This mightn't seem terribly romantic," he sounded apologetic. "But I'm famished. Do you want to have dinner downstairs?"

Walking slowly across the length of the room, Freddy slid her arms around her husband's waist. "If it's all the same to you," she said, tilting her face up to his. "I'd rather have room service, if you can bear eating in here."

"We could always move the table out there," he nodded at the balcony. "It's a lovely evening and there's enough room."

"Brilliant thinking," Freddy laughed and hugged him tight. "No wonder you're so good at your job; you always have such good ideas." Heading over to the table, she picked up a couple of room service menus, handing one to Greg while she pored over the other.

"I'm hungry too, but I don't want anything too heavy," she mused. "Oh look," she pointed. "Any five items including a sweet and wine, for a fixed price," she ran a fingertip down the list of items. "Sounds perfect. What about you?"

"Yeah, I could go for something like that," Greg nodded. As long as there was something reasonably substantial on the list, he'd be fine. "Fancy the lobster?" he asked. "It's our wedding night, may as well go the whole hog."

"I've had enough of elaborate things for one day; I think I'll get the chicken," Freddy pointed. "But if you want something exotic, we can share between us and have twice as much choice of everything," she smiled.

"And some champagne, or are you sick of the stuff after today?" For some reason, Greg wanted champagne now. The need to have their own, private celebration tonight was becoming strangely important to him.

"Yes, why not?" Freddy walked close and rested against him. "Though I don't need any more alcohol, not really."

"Then we'll just have some nice chilled mineral water, shall we?" Greg bowed his head and grazed her lips as a mix of deep emotions washed through him. He'd have been happy with water from the tap if that was what she wanted. He had the weirdest feeling, though whether it was to laugh or weep he couldn't say, and simply held her tight, allowing the emotion to flow out of him. Picking up the room phone, he called room service and told them what was wanted.

"Certainly, sir. It will take approximately twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes," Greg nuzzled the side of Freddy's head. "Fancy getting out of these things and having a shower before dinner?"

"It's a big shower," Freddy smiled against his chest. "We could conserve water ..."

"I'm not the only one with good ideas tonight," he smiled. "Come on then," he took her hand. Stripping as he went, Greg grabbed the two thick white hotel robes and laid them on the bed. "Stop," he instructed as soon as Freddy had undone her dress. "I know what's under that and it's my husbandly duty to help you take it off!"

"If you insist," Freddy smiled and shook her head, walking into the bathroom and waiting for Greg to exercise his husbandly duty. Eventually, even Greg had to admit neither of them could get any more naked and stepped into the shower as Freddy turned on the taps. He brandished a big sponge and fragrant body wash.

"I'll scrub your back."

"That's not my back."

"You're just no fun."

"I thought you were famished?"

They had just managed to robe themselves when there was a soft knock at the door.

" _A minute_ ," Freddy called, pulling Greg's face down to her level and kissing him with a deliberate passion. "That's for dessert," she whispered, sliding open the glass doors to the balcony and moving the chairs outside into the cooling air.

The waiter rolled in a trolley laden with covered plates and dishes, as well as a vase of red roses and a silver ice-bucket containing a very decent bottle of champagne. "Complements of the management," he laid a white napkin over his arm as he observed the small table out on the balcony. He stood behind the nearest seat. "Madam?" Holding the chair until Freddy sat in her white bathrobe, he proceeded to lay out their impromptu alfresco dinner with all the gravity of a silver-service _maître d'_. Finally popping the fizzy, he poured out two flutes of the wine and gave a little bow.

"Enjoy your dinner," he smiled and left.

Greg grinned wickedly. _Especially dessert_ , he thought.


	8. July

"And so, as you can see, Mrs Kerr," Terry Markham was effortlessly convincing as he hovered his open hands above the drawing lying on the kitchen table. "By converting the currently unused land surrounding your house, it would be entirely possible to provide both a house _and_ a garden for at least, oh, let's say four or so families, rather than just the one." Markham, one of the most successful property sale executives of Harrow and London Property Sales, smiled the smile of an honest and conscientious man. "And I know how important it is that your lovely home goes to a family. Doing it this way means is that instead of selling your property to an individual vendee, you sell to a development company who have the necessary plans drawn up to cleverly develop the land and then sell the resulting homes themselves."

"And would I have the opportunity to see this development plan before I agree to any sale?" Gwendoline raised her eyebrows as she sipped fragrant tea from one of her favourite Minton cups, a rather fetching gold-on-white porcelain. "Naturally, I would be very interested to see exactly how cleverly the developer planned to use the land itself," she added, replacing the cup and saucer on the table. "Harrow is such a traditional area, and having four houses in the place of one ... well, it might not do, you see."

Showing the old woman any development plans for her plot of land was the last thing in Markham's mind. If she was already balking at the idea of four potential houses, imagine how she might feel about the more likely even of having _nine_ townhouses packed cheek-by-jowl into her small acreage. He'd already seen an initial draft of the planning permission drawings and, while the houses were well designed little things, the amount of space between each one was roughly the length of an outstretched arm. Time to bring out the big guns.

"And then, of course," he added artlessly. "The anticipated profit generated by selling to a developer would be significantly higher than the figure I initially mentioned when you commissioned my organisation to act on your behalf," he smiled again, nodding slowly as he met her eyes. "Significantly higher."

Frowning slightly, Gwendoline looked thoughtful, holding her own counsel as the real-estate agent looked around the ground floor kitchen of the Pimlico house. He'd been blown away by the place the minute he'd seen the walled garden, even though the external grounds were currently bare of anything other than a few piles of small stones and several heaps of sand half-covered by tarpaulins. When he'd actually seen the inside of Gwendoline's apartment, his mercenary soul automatically began calculating price per meter squared in this part of London. Westminster was one of _the_ most desirable city boroughs to live in, and a house this size ... It had to be in the multiple millions. Anyone who lived in a joint like this had to be used to having money ... and once you had money, you could never get enough of the stuff. If he got her a good deal with the Harrow property, maybe he'd be able to do something with this one as well. It never hurt to keep your eyes open for the next job.

"So, as I said, Mrs Kerr," Terry Markham adopted his most virtuous, inoffensive expression. "You'd not only be doing some real good for a handful of families struggling to find a lovely family home, but you'd be doing yourself a serious financial favour," he said as the woman turned to meet his eyes. Gwendoline's expression was equally innocuous as her faded hazel gaze refocused on the sales agent.

"Mr Markham," she smiled sweetly, linking her fingers together on the tabletop. "I'm not sure if you consider me to be an idiot or already in my dotage, or if you are simply a rather stupid man, however I am fully aware of the mindset of property developers, having been contacted by several of their kind while still living in Harrow," she held up a hand to forestall the comment she could see already shaping his lips.

"The last developer who suggested I sell my property to him a made a case for building no less than eight houses in the space which currently holds a single dwelling. I am very surprised to hear you say that any financially-minded individual might be satisfied with a maximum of four houses on my land, when it is very probable they could obtain planning permission for a significantly higher number." Unblinking, Gwendoline held his eyes as she raised her eyebrows. "Significantly higher."

"Therefore," she continued, overriding a second attempt by Markham to interject a comment. "I am able to arrive at only two possible conclusions," Her smile ramped up into the megawatts. "Either you, Mr Markham, have no real awareness or understanding of the London and Harrow property marketplace, which gives me great concern as to your ability to properly act on my behalf, or you are trying to persuade me to sell under false pretences," Gwendoline paused, waiting. "Which is it?"

"Mrs Kerr," Terry Markham's voice was on the hurt side of offended. "I've done nothing here but try and help you get the best possible deal in the current marketplace."

"No, Mr Markham," Gwendoline shook her head gently. "What you've done here is to try and get _you_ the best possible deal," she sighed and shook her head. "I can't help but feel my son-in-law, a Chief Inspector in the Met, you know, would take a dim view of such an approach," she sounded glum. "Gregory is such a nice young man," Gwendoline's smile now held a slight edge. "So ethical."

 _Fuck_. The old biddy was as sharp as a knife. _Time to change tactics_.

"And before you attempt to convince me that I have entirely misconstrued your meaning, I suggest you don't," raising her hand again, Gwendoline's eyes grew as flinty as her tone. "Unlike yourself, Mr Markham, I have no desire to waste time over a supposed misunderstanding. I know very well what you've been attempting to do and I'd much rather you cease your game-playing and deal with me in a straightforward manner."

"I can assure you, Mrs Kerr ..."

"No. Try again," Gwendoline frowned.

"On my honour ..."

"Oh, dear me _no_ ," she winced, mildly dismayed.

"I promise you, Mrs Kerr, that ..."

The Kerr matriarch sighed. "Last chance, Mr Markham."

The estate agent looked at her with a decidedly dyspeptic expression. "Do you want to sell your property for the highest price?" he asked, eventually.

"Not if it means spoiling the area with lots of horrible little houses," Gwendoline pursed her mouth and frowned at him.

Markham stared up at the high ceiling, observing both the beauty of the original architraves as well as the fact that he appeared to be at a distinct disadvantage in the current negotiations. He'd never had a client before who insisted on making less money than she could. Oh well, so be it.

"Then you really do want to sell your house and land to a single family?" he wanted to be absolutely sure.

"Preferably. I think, yes." Gwendoline spoke slowly, thoughtfully.

"Given the sorry state of your old house, you know it's going to have to be pulled down and either completely rebuilt from the ground up or significantly remodernised, don't you?" Markham sounded defeated; watching as understanding reached the old woman's face. He shook his head. "Frankly, I don't know how you've managed to hang on there for so long," he said. "It's not a place I'd want my own mother living in." Markham sighed and searched the ceiling for more ideas. "If the property needs so much work doing to it, and it does, then you might consider demolishing the house and selling the land in two separate parcels, each with planning permission for its own dwelling," he offered, finally. "The garden space you have up there really would be wasted on one house, but if you cleared the whole piece of land and split it into two, you'd get a better return on the sale of the land itself, without going down the road of high-density development, if that makes you feel any better." Markham let his shoulders sag, the idea of the Maldives gone straight out the window. He'd have some awkward explanations to make to the wife later.

With a smile in her voice, Gwendoline nodded. "Much better, Mr Markham," she said. "Much better. Now, about this planning permission ..?"

###

Feeling as if he were walking on a soft cloud, Greg moved in a daze. Even though he and Freddy had been effectively living together for several months, since she came out of the hospital, in fact, last night had been a dream and he felt spectacularly unwound, though, while he'd never admit it, more than a little weary. It had been a real effort to move his body from the warm nest of a hotel bed. Freddy, on the other hand, had been up with the sparrows and looked as bright as a button, with energy to burn and then some. As soon as they'd had breakfast in one of the Connaught's eateries, she'd laughingly told him to indulge his weary bones with a second coffee while she finished the packing. Acknowledging her as a minor deity, Greg hadn't even had the energy to argue and so he sat, staring out of a wide shining window at the sunny Sunday morning show London was putting on for him. Checking his watch, he saw that the taxi would be coming for them in thirty minutes, giving them plenty of time to get to Victoria Station and, from there, a quick tube ride across to King's Cross and then a direct run all the way up to Berwick-on-Tweed. The original plan had been to hire a car at Coldstream and meet up with Freddy's cousins, but once he'd worked out the relatively minor distances involved, he'd suggested they hire a car in Berwick instead and simply drive directly to Kelso. It was going to be a long day and the cousins would keep until the day after their arrival. Once Freddy was convinced he wasn't going to be overdoing things on his own honeymoon, she'd happily acquiesced.

And so, she was up in the room packing while he lounged around in the Connaught breakfast room, staring out at the sunshine and wondering how the bloody hell he'd managed to be so lucky. Freddy was everything he could ever hope to find, though why she'd decided to hang her hat next to his was anyone's guess. Based on her enthusiasm for him last night, anyone would think he'd been first cab off the rank when it came to good looks and masculine virility and yet he knew this was not the case. Middle-aged, with a solid if not exactly brilliant career behind him, Greg felt that, compared to her, he was very much getting the better part of the bargain.

And yet ... and yet ... last night had been ... amazing. Not only the physical side of things, the memory of which put a slow smile on his face, but the feeling of something there that was suddenly bigger than the both of them. Shaking his head at such foolish thoughts, Greg sipped his coffee and stretched lazily. He felt warm and relaxed and loved and life right now was about as wonderful as it could get.

"Your taxi's on the way, sir." A uniformed young man stood at the side of the breakfast table. "Thought you'd like to know."

 _Shit_. How had he lost so much time daydreaming? Swigging back the last of his coffee, he stood while fumbling for his wallet to leave a tip.

"Everything's taken care of, Mr Lestrade," the man smiled. "Your wife is waiting for you at Reception with your bags."

It was official. Freddy was a saint.

Walking into the main lobby, Greg had to stop and smile to himself as he saw her standing there for him, a sunny expression on her face.

"Good coffee was it?" she asked, quietly laughing as he strolled over and hugged her to him.

"Whenever we have a row, just remind me of how fantastic you are and I'll cave instantly," he murmured, planting a soft kiss on her cheek as he took the light travelling jacket she held out to him.

"Once we get on the train, you can snooze until Berwick," Freddy brushed hair from his eyes, meeting them with a fond look. "I promise not to molest you again until we're in our little Scottish cottage."

"You are such a bad influence," Greg patted her bottom affectionately. "And there's me thinking you were the proper one in this relationship."

Saying nothing but giving him an arch look, Freddy turned to thank the Receptionist before walking, with something of a regal air, towards the main entrance.

They made the train with time in hand, grabbing a couple of seats for the brief ride to King's Cross Station. Once there, they made their way across from the Tube to the overland station and to their waiting train on Platform Six. Grabbing hold of both suitcase handles, Greg wheeled them down the platform, trusting Freddy to tell him when to stop.

"Here we are," she said, standing outside an open carriage doorway. It was only then that Greg noticed the sign on the door.

 _First Class_. He'd never travelled first class in his life. Freddy had the tickets in her hand and she usually knew what she was doing, but ... first class?

Turning to her new husband with a look that said she knew exactly what she was doing, Freddy raised her eyebrows when she saw his raised eyebrows. "What's the matter, darling?"

"We're in the right carriage, are we?"

Examining the printed tickets again, Freddy nodded. "Carriage E, seats twenty-eight and thirty-two," she looked at him curiously.

"Lead on then," Greg lugged the heavy bags into the train compartment and around the corner to the luggage bay which was conveniently almost empty. Stowing the suitcases at the back of the bay he checked. "Is there anything we're going to need out of these before we get where we're going?" he asked. "Only, once everyone else piles in, there's no way we're going to be able to reach them."

Smiling and patting her capacious shoulder bag comfortingly, Freddy shook her head. "We're down here, I think," she said, heading down the central aisle until she located their seats, a single, either side of a small table, beside a pristinely clean window. "We should be in Berwick by two," she looked up. "Which way do you prefer to travel?" she asked. "Facing the engine or not?"

"Not bothered in the least," Greg draped his jacket over the inner arm of one of the seats. "This okay for you?"

Smiling, Freddy slid into the other seat and sighed luxuriantly. "I confess to being a little fatigued myself," she said, resting her linked fingers on her chest and watching her new husband with lidded eyes. "I had something of a restless night."

Relaxing entirely into the well-upholstered and highly comfortable chair, Greg held his wife's gaze as he discovered the seat had a reclining function. Tipping his chair back as far as it would go, he knew he'd be out like a light before the train left London. He also knew whose fault that was. "Hussy," he smiled imperceptibly. "I hope you don't expect me to pander so shamelessly to your sexual demands for the entire holiday," he said reprovingly. "I am, after all, a mere man."

Leaning forward on the table between them, Freddy's smile held a vaguely predatory air. "That's not what you said last night," she accused softly. "In fact, as I recall, it was your idea to have that second and rather energetic shower." Raising her eyebrows again, Freddy leaned back, beginning to unpack her bag. "This train has a full lunch service, but I thought you might like these," she said, plonking a bag of his favourite sherbet lemons down in front of him.

"Brilliant!" Greg snagged the sweets with a huge grin. "I think you'd better marry me, lady," he said, offering her a sweetie before popping one in his own mouth. "You're too amazing to be left unattended."

"I also saw these and thought of you," Freddy laid two magazines on the table. One about James Bond cars and a second about fishing in Scotland. "Help yourself," she said, taking out a tube of mints and a thick paperback. He wondered if she planned on reading the entire thing over the oncoming days and smiled to himself. He wasn't _that_ exhausted.

The train departed the station exactly on schedule, smoothly and with a minimum of noise or fuss. There were only four stops on the entire journey up to Scotland, so Greg reckoned he could doze for an hour or so. Seeing Freddy settling herself in for a good read, he allowed himself to relax back into the embrace of the sinfully comfortable chair and close his eyes. He'd probably not be able to fall asleep in any case ...

... And blinked himself awake, yawning and stretching in a carriage that was now almost completely full, the low buzz of varied conversations not being quite enough to wake him without Freddy's toe gently poking his leg.

"Lunch will be served shortly," she looked amused at his heavy-eyed gaze. "We passed through York half-an-hour ago and you've missed some superb countryside."

"I'll catch it on the way back," he smiled, rubbing his eyes as a uniformed waiter arrived with a bottle of chilled white wine, setting it beside the table in a silvered ice bucket.

Lunch was a minor miracle, and Greg began to see the attractions of living it up in first class. Freshened by his surprisingly deep sleep, he managed to do proper justice to a very palatable three-course meal, the sharpness of the cool wine warming him down to his toes. Watching Freddy pick her way through a light risotto, he felt an unexpected wave of desire for her. Had they been back in the Connaught, he'd have rolled them both onto the indecently soft bed and spent an indecently long time making sure his new wife was thoroughly spoiled in the very best of ways.

Glancing up from her meal, Freddy met his eyes briefly before pausing and examining his expression more closely. The faintest pink touched her cheeks as she reached for her wine.

"Feeling rested, I see," she observed tartly.

Letting the width of his grin speak for itself, Greg finished his glass of Chardonnay and checked his watch. The train had flashed through Darlington during lunch and Newcastle couldn't be that far ahead. In less than an hour they'd be at Berwick. Picking up the magazine with the Aston Martin on the cover, his grin stayed exactly where it was.

###

The car they'd booked was a modest Volkswagen, a newish-looking five-door hatch with good tyres and a two litre engine under the bonnet. Not exactly a performance car, but with a decent bit of grunt for any steep hills. Leaving Freddy to finish off the paperwork, Greg lumped the two heavy bags into the back where they fitted with ease. He'd already sat in the driving seat, examining the dashboard layout when Freddy slid through the passenger door holding a thick folder of information and a couple of paper maps. Even though the car had come with a small sat-nav, it never hurt to have a map you could pick up and shout at when you got lost. Not that he'd ever get lost, of course. Greg liked paper maps; they gave you time to think.

"Fast or pretty route?" he asked, checking the fuel gauge as the engine rumbled into life. "We can go through Coldstream and into Scotland the slow way, or take the A1 directly from here to Kelso with no towns to head through. Either way, we'll be at the cottage inside the hour."

"The pretty way, in that case," Freddy sat back with a happy expression on her face.

"The lady's wish is my command," Greg put the VW in gear and pulled out of the carpark. The journey to Kelso was well signposted and the afternoon was as sunny and bright up here as it had been in London that morning. With the car windows down, the fresh scents of the Scottish countryside blew through their hair and the drive was delightful.

"Kersmain Cottage is around here somewhere," Freddy consulted her own map, referencing it against passing signposts as they reached the outskirts of the small Scottish town. "Down there," she pointed confidently as Greg turned the car into a well-maintained but narrow road with high hedges and no room to pass another car. They'd be in trouble if they met anything coming the other way.

Looking supremely confident, Freddy simply smiled as they sped silently along the lane, enjoying the late afternoon sun. "There," she said, indicating three tiny cottages in a row at the edge of a field. "Ours is the one on the far right."

Swinging the VW into the small courtyard in front of the end cottage, Greg saw there was a carport around to the side of the house, together with a gate that presumably led to a rear garden. "Let me get the bags out here and then I'll put the car in there," he nodded at the carport. "Unless you want us to go somewhere else today?"

"Not tonight, I think," Freddy was pulling a set of keys from an electronically locked box at the side of the door. "I arranged to have a load of groceries delivered today and I think we could both do with a cup of tea before we do anything else, don't you?"

Smiling again at the fact that he'd not only married a gorgeous, sexy, clever and sensible woman, Greg sighed in real pleasure that he'd also landed someone who didn't expect him to do everything. By the time he'd put the car away and closed the front door of the cottage behind him, he could hear Freddy clattering around in the kitchen.

"Shall we have a quick tour of the place while the kettle's boiling?" she suggested, seeing him standing in the doorway.

"Not until I've kissed you properly," Greg's voice was inexplicably husky as he stepped forward and enveloped her in his arms. "I adore you," he whispered, kissing her gently but meaningfully, a kiss that turned more passionate as Freddy shivered in his arms and moaned softly as he held her tight to his chest.

Inhaling hard as he moved her away, Greg swallowed, wondering if he should just damn everything, carry her up to the bedroom, and be done with things for the day.

"Kitchen," apparently Freddy had other ideas as she slipped away from his half-raised arms. "Dining area here," she called over her shoulder. "And a lovely little conservatory through here." Greg followed his wife through the few small rooms on the ground floor; a very cosy front parlour, with a flat screen television and an open log fire. Up the narrow stairs to a single, surprisingly large bedroom and a thoroughly modernised bathroom right next to it. It was the perfect honeymoon cottage.

"You've done so much work, you and your mum, arranging all this," Greg pulled out a chair in the kitchen for Freddy to sit in. "At least let me make you some tea and tidy this lot away," he waved at the several large cardboard boxes of provisions.

"If you like," Freddy sat back and watched him deftly rinse out the teapot with boiling water before adding tea leaves and letting the pot sit. Fetching a couple of china mugs, Greg began unpacking the boxes. "Can't see any milk," he said, looking into the depths.

"They probably put it directly into the fridge," Freddy smiled as she got up to pour the tea.

"Ah ah _ah_ ah," Greg waved her back. "It's my turn to do a bit of organising," he said. "You stay put for a minute, woman."

Watching him pour her tea before methodically putting things away in various store cupboards, Freddy looked amused. Greg paused as he came to a small collection of bottles, holding up a sixteen year old bottle of Lagavulin scotch in one hand and a bottle of equally aged Hennessy cognac in the other.

"There should be a bottle of Hendricks in there too," Freddy sipped her mug of tea. "I do hope they remembered to pack the mixers I ordered. There should be some lager for you as well."

_At least they wouldn't be running out of nightcaps for the foreseeable future._

Checking the fridge was properly packed with food and the freezer equally properly filled with ice and ... oh, ice-cream as well as various frozen containers of stuff. Greg grabbed his mug and sat down at the small table. "Remind me to make sure you do all the organising for our holidays in the future," he laid a gentle hand over hers. "You have a distinct knack for it."

"Comes from working in science," she said, rubbing the back of his wrist with her thumb. "Everything has to always be so entirely orchestrated and in its place that, after a while the same mindset applies to everything, from doing one's laundry to organising a honeymoon," she smiled at him. "As long as you don't mind me doing things this way."

"I love you more with every passing minute of doing things your way," Greg raised her hand up to his lips and brushed a kiss across the soft skin at the inside of her wrist. "You have no idea how much of a relief it is not to have to be the one who always does things."

"Poor darling," Freddy looked momentarily subdued before giving him a quick smile. "Well, we're here now and neither of us has anything to do for the next ten days but relax, take in the beautiful scenery and have a go at some fishing."

"Speaking of which," Greg frowned. "Where are we going to get our hands on all the fishing gear? Isn't it going to be expensive to buy or even rent?"

"Oh, good lord, yes," Freddy sipped her tea. "Far too costly for us to buy anything. A half-decent fly rod can go for around a couple of hundred pounds, and that's not including all the other kit that goes with it, no," Freddy shook her head. "It's one of the reasons mummy contacted the cousins," she added. "We can borrow theirs as long as we replace anything we lose or damage."

"And you're still happy to try and teach me, eh?" Greg lifted his eyebrows. "I don't want it to become one of those things that become a cause for divorce so early in the day, you realise?"

"Idiot," Freddy looked at him fondly. "Fly fishing isn't as difficult as people make out. It does require a little practice, a lot of practice if you want to be competitive about it, but for simply having a pleasant day in the river, you don't need to be an expert in the slightest."

"Well, alright then," Greg looked at his watch. It was beginning to darken outside and his stomach reminded him that lunch had been a while ago. "What do you fancy for dinner?" he asked, peering into the fridge again.

"How about we knock up a quick stir-fry and have a glass of wine?" Freddy was already on her feet. "We could have an early night that way."

"I really like the way you think," with another grin, Greg began hunting for something that would do as a wok.

###

The next morning was brilliantly sunny and tranquil, with birds swooping and chasing each other beyond the cottage windows and the scent of dew-sprinkled gardens on the air. The newlyweds slept late due to a combination of alcohol and physical exhaustion.

"Travelling really does tire one," Freddy tasted her coffee and looked demure.

"As good an explanation as the next one," Greg crunched toast and didn't even attempt to wipe the fatuous expression he knew must be covering his face. He couldn't help himself; he was in love and on his honeymoon. Plenty of time for the real world to intrude when they returned to London. "So, what's on the menu for today then? Sight-seeing? Shopping for souvenirs? Heading back to bed for some more travelling?"

"At the risk of spoiling the mood, I think I'd prefer to wear myself out in the vertical position today, for a change," she smiled. "How about a nice walk around the town?"

The rest of their conversation was interrupted by a solid knocking at the front door. Frowning at each other, Greg took the handful of steps needed to open the main door. A man and a woman stood there, hesitant expressions on their faces.

"And would you be Greg Lestrade?" the man inquired politely. "Up from London?"

Nodding slowly, Greg waited for more information.

"Ah, and that's just fine then, because I'm Roddy Fairbairn and this is my wife, Isla," he added, as if that all made perfect sense.

Still in the dark, Greg felt Freddy's hand stroke down his back.

"And you must be the cousins mummy told me about," she smiled, pulling Greg back into the kitchen with her. "Come in and have some coffee."

"Delighted, and so we will," Roddy Fairbairn smiled openly and followed her into the small kitchen.

Waiting for the woman to pass him by, Greg was startled to see a dark and violent shadow cross her face.


	9. Chapter 9

_Married?_ Douglas Henshaw stared aghast for several long and disbelieving moments at the small insert in The Times newspaper. The name of her husband was unknown to him and therefore the man was clearly of no significance. _Lestrade?_ He had never heard the name before; some jumped-up Johnny from the Continent, probably. Not that it mattered in the long run: Frederica Kerr was eminently qualified to seek the Apley title in her own right. A husband meant nothing. Letting the newspaper crumple in his lap as Henshaw rethought his timeframe, a heavy scowl darkening what had, in the past, been a not unlikable face.

The meeting with the senior partner at Hunters had gone surprising well, even though the candidate elect had been noticeable by her absence. Douglas had had to play that one a little cagily, but now the wedding announcement would actually work very well for him. He could simply ring up Fitzwilliam right away and make the excuse that he'd been under instructions not to say anything before the wedding announcement had been published; it would certainly lend veracity to his claim to have the putative countess in his immaculately suited pocket. If he batted clever, he'd also be able to use the brief honeymoon, he consulted the announcement again, in Scotland, of all places, to his distinct advantage as a honeymoon would explain the lady's continued absence. Henshaw sat back, his forehead unravelling. This situation might not be entirely to the bad, he just had to maintain a believability in his advisory capacity until he was actually able to meet with the Kerr woman. Once he had her personal agreement, everything would be plain sailing.

In the meantime, he could use the next few days to begin drawing up the articles leading to registration on the Roll of Peerage, which required some quite lengthy and complex documents of proof being sent to both the Lord Chancellor and also, due to the heavy Scottish connection, to the Lord Lyon King of Arms. Henshaw paused for a moment, wondering where precisely in Scotland the young Countess might be taking her honeymoon. How ironic if she were to pass anywhere near Kelso. Shaking his head at the unlikely coincidence, he bent to his task with a more cheerful expression shaping his features.

###

Following Isla Fairbairn and her husband into the cottage, Greg suggested everyone move to the small conservatory as the kitchen was just a little too cramped for comfort. Catching Greg's eye, Freddy waggled her eyebrows as she filled the kettle to make some fresh coffee. By the time Greg had organised the seating so that everyone was comfortable, the black look had vanished from Mrs Fairbairn's face.

"Third cousins, you see," Roddy Fairbairn smiled cheerfully, as if the statement made everything perfectly clear. "Father was the second cousin of Freddy's papa," he added, nodding, moving his gaze out through the glass walls of the tiny conservatory. "What a lovely little cottage this is. Glorious view. We used to go grouse shooting just the other side of that evergreen copse over there," he nodded at a ridge of trees in the distance.

"Used to be all private estate land around here," Isla Fairbairn's voice was educated and carefully moderated to nullify any Scottish accent. "This whole area once belonged to the Roxburghe family, but death duties and taxes have meant much has been sold," she blinked and looked dissatisfied. "The State behaves as it pleases," she sniffed, sounding more than slightly peeved. Greg reckoned he'd heard more Scottish in the accent of the fruit-seller near the Yard than there was in her voice, though he kept his observation to himself as it didn't sound like she was in a chatty mood.

Freddy entered with the coffee, kissing Roddy on the cheek as he stood at her arrival. "Lovely to see you again, Coz," she smiled at the fair-headed man, before turning a friendly face towards his wife and extending a hand. "I don't think we've ever met, have we? I'm Freddy Kerr, daughter of Robert and Gwendoline."

Making no effort to do more than smile politely, Isla Fairbairn oozed gentrified charm as she shook Freddy's hand in a vague kind of way. "Yes, everyone around this part of Kelso knows of the Kerr family," she said coolly. "Though my husband has so many cousins," she smiled her tone unchanged. "I find it hard to keep track of them all these days."

 _Rude bitch_. Greg managed to maintain a neutral expression as he poured the coffee, though it took a little effort.

As if she had noticed nothing untoward, Freddy took the only spare seat between the two men and gestured around with her hand. "Greg and I were so fortunate to find this perfect cottage for the time we're up here," she said. "Mummy also said that there were some excellent salmon runs in the Kelso vicinity."

"Indeed there are," Roddy chimed in. "Around Floors Castle here and yon, there are any number of decent fishing beats, though some are too rich for our purse, I have to confess," he smiled happily, as if the notion of money was of little importance.

Greg sneaked a sideways look at Isla Fairbairn's expression, utterly unsurprised to see a tightening around her mouth and at the side of her eyes as she looked increasingly pained.

 _Ah_. So _that_ was a problem, was it?

"And you're happy for us to borrow some of your gear?" Freddy looked at both Fairbairns in turn. "Mummy said she'd been in touch with you, but if she got the wrong end of the stick, then you must tell us and we can go and rent some tackle instead," she looked rueful. "You know what she's like."

"Aye, and there's nae problem wi' borrowing some of our kit, none in the least," Roddy grinned broadly, turning to Greg. "We've got several rods we keep for spare, and there's plenty of bait and tackle shops in the area if you fancy some grander lures, and while you'll have to pay the daily rent, I arranged a wee discount for family," he winked broadly. "I've already had a word wi' yon Factor and you can set up your rods tomorrow if you wish."

Though he had listened carefully to what Freddy's cousin said, Greg wasn't entirely sure what he meant. _Rent_ , he understood, as he did _lures_ and _rods_. But everything else ... Deciding to keep his mouth shut rather than embarrass his wife with his complete ignorance of fly-fishing, Greg nodded thoughtfully, before turning to Freddy. "It's a wife's privilege to choose," he grinned. "I better start as I mean to continue," he added, taking Freddy's hand, his open admiration bringing a pink tinge to her face once again. Greg decided he rather like that and made a mental note to make her blush some more, the next time they were alone.

"If you're quite sure?" she looked pleased.

"Aye, and the gear's in the back of the wagon," Roddy laughed, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. "Ah ken your mother was a dab hand with a rod in her day, and the fruit falls close to the tree in our family."

The expression on Mrs Fairbairn's face was little shy of malicious at this point and Greg wondered why the woman was in such a foul mood. She looked as if she'd just bitten a lemon.

Slapping Greg on the shoulder, Roddy stood, clearly intending that the two of them should bring in the fishing tackle from the car he'd parked outside. Wondering what might be said once he was out of earshot, Greg threw Freddy a quick glance, relieved to see a placid smile curving her mouth.

"More coffee?" she asked, looking at Isla. "You must tell me all about this beautiful countryside of yours," she added. "Living in London means that we miss all of this grandeur ..."

Smiling to himself at Freddy's graciousness, Greg followed Roddy outside.

###

"And what, exactly, was _her_ problem?" Almost as soon as the gear had been unloaded and stacked carefully in the front passage, Isla Fairbairn had made it clear she needed to be elsewhere and took her husband off with some alacrity.

Turning to face him as she stood at the sink rinsing out the coffee things, Freddy frowned slightly, thinking. "I'd suggest that she probably needs a jolly good servicing," she said. "Poor Roddy. I can't imagine what he has to put up with."

Not sure if he'd heard correctly, Greg smiled, puzzled. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" he asked, on the edge of laughter.

"Isla Fairbairn is a dreadful snob who probably trades on her tenuous relationship to the old Roxburghe family and sees herself as Queen Bee of Kelso," Freddy explained, drying her hands. "I have no idea why she might consider me as an interloper as we've never met before today, but clearly she does. I even wonder if she's caught Roddy out in an affair, not that I'd blame him," Freddy shook her head. "It's not his fault that he's a pleasant soul married to an absolute bag. Perhaps she's envious of him for some reason," she paused, as if struck by a sudden thought, but shook her head dismissing the idea, whatever it might have been.

Catching her around the waist and pulling her close, Greg nibbled the side of Freddy's neck, smiling happily at her faintly vindictive tone. "God, I love you when you get snarky," he inhaled deeply, his mouth caressing the crook of her neck. "Mind you," his voice dropped down to a low rumble. "I quite like it you when you're all meek and mild in bed too," he murmured in her ear. "Fancy a jolly good servicing while I'm in the mood?" his lips moved around to her throat, feeling her heartbeat pulse harder beneath the skin.

"Gregory Lestrade, you are shameless," Freddy gasped softly as she was tilted back in her husband's arms. "We've barely been out of bed since the wedding."

" _Mmm_ , I know," Greg's rumble dropped into a growl. "You're insatiable."

"And hungry," Freddy poked him in a ticklish spot. "How would you like steak and eggs for breakfast?"

"For breakfast?" Greg was so surprised that he pulled her back upright. "For _breakfast?_ I _never_ get steak and eggs for breakfast," he met her eyes, a yearning light in his face.

"In Scotland, on your honeymoon, you may have steak and eggs," Freddy smoothed her palm down the stubble of his face. "Got to keep up your strength for fishing."

"And other things," he murmured against her skin. "Okay. I'll go shave then, if you don't need me for a bit."

"You've got twenty minutes," Freddy called as she started pulling things from the refrigerator.

Taking full advantage of the cottage's supremely luxurious bathroom facilities, Greg treated himself to a skin-pounding hot shower, followed by a thorough shave. Rinsing his razor off under the tap, he pulled on a more presentable polo shirt and trousers before heading downstairs in socked feet.

The mixed aromas of fresh coffee, hot fresh bread and, greatest of all wondrous things, fresh-cooked steak, the heavenly scent of bacon, eggs and orange juice. He paused in the kitchen doorway, taking the feast in with his eyes, a wide grin beginning to stretch his mouth.

"Don't expect this too often when we're back in London," Freddy poured out two mugs of coffee. "But I feel we're entitled to indulge ourselves while we're up here," she added primly.

"My god," Greg pulled out a chair. "I already knew you were a saint, but _this_ ..." he reached over and picked up a small hot bread roll, just out of the oven. Slathering it in butter, he crunched it and stared happily across the table. "I am your slave," he mumbled around the bread. "Feed me like this and I'll catch you fish with my bare hands."

"Idiot," Freddy shook her head but looked happy nevertheless, the bad vibe of Isla Fairbairn already forgotten.

"So, a little sightseeing today?" Greg closed his eyes in bliss as he tried some of the spice and honey-cured bacon, too delicious for his brain to properly describe, so he had some more. "Have a look around the town? Maybe find a pub for lunch? See what kind of bait we can get in one of these fishing tackle shops?"

"Sounds perfect," Freddy nodded. "Although we won't need actual bait, as fly-fishing uses artificial lures to attract the salmon," she said. "Though it doesn't hurt to scatter some bait feed on the surface before you begin," she added. "Get the fish in the mood."

Chewing silently for a moment, Greg paused. "You reckon I'll be any good at this fly fishing game?"

"It's not difficult to do once you've got a feel for the rod and the line," Freddy waved her fork in the air. "The thing is not to overthink it or you'll end up being so worried about doing it right that you'll never enjoy it. The idea is to get the fly on the surface of the water and let the fish take it," she shrugged, impaling a piece of steak. "We're here to enjoy the place, not worry about it."

"Then how about we take up Cousin Roddy's invitation and try out the rods tomorrow morning?" Greg sounded upbeat. "If it turns out not to be the best of ideas, then we've still got plenty of time to decide to do something else; day drives maybe, or going to see some old castles. There's a big one not far from here, isn't there?"

"Floors Castle, yes," Freddy nodded. "Home of the Duke of Roxburghe and his family."

"Hang on," Greg stopped eating as his police-mind kicked in, lifting his unburdened fork in the air. "Didn't you tell me that there's a connection between the Roxburghe lot and your family, the Kers and the Kerrs?" he asked. "Isn't that what Alex Harper went completely mental about ... what with your father's distant family and everything?" he asked reflectively. "The first Earl thingy?"

Sighing, Freddy laid down her cutlery and bit her upper lip. This hadn't been a conversation she'd planned to have on her honeymoon, but there was no way she could do anything now but say what needed to be said.

"I was waiting until we returned to London after the honeymoon before I mentioned anything," she said, sipping coffee. "But not all the documents Alex was after were revealed during his court case. Alex's counsel didn't mention them because it would only have made his case worse, and I didn't mention them because ... because I wasn't sure if I wanted to take the matter any further . There were some key details that never saw the light of day and I've never had the need to share with anyone before now," she looked so serious that Greg ignored the siren call of prime Porterhouse and laid his knife and fork down as he listened.

"It sounds serious," he offered quietly. "Is there a problem I need to know about?" he asked carefully. "Something between you and Alex that you didn't want to ... that's private between the two of you?"

Looking at her new husband with a troubled expression, Freddy wrinkled her forehead. "Are you asking if Alex and I had a relationship?" she said. "If he and I slept together?"

Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Greg shrugged and stared at his breakfast. "What happened in the past is none of my business," he said, shaking his head. "If there was something between the two of you, then I absolutely don't need to know ..."

"I have never been to bed with Alex if that's giving you any concern, though he made it perfectly clear he considered it an inevitable event," Freddy's voice was as dry as dust. "His opinion, not mine, I hasten to add," she inhaled slowly. "He simply wasn't my type, as I told you ages ago."

"Yeah, you did," Greg looked up, smiling foolishly. "Sorry."

"No." It was Freddy's turn to shake her head and look down at her plate. "I'm afraid it's more serious than that," she frowned.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense, woman," Greg was beginning to wonder what on earth could be so bad that Freddy had felt unable to share it with him after everything they'd already been through together. Was it something to do with his job as a policeman perhaps? _Was Freddy in some kind of trouble?_ "For better, for worse, remember?"

"There were some legal papers," she said carefully. "Papers that I replaced in Daddy's old tin box that day at Mummy's house in Harrow ... before I came outside when Alex had the shotgun in his hands ..."

"What kind of legal papers?" Greg's mind began to whirl with possibilities.

Sighing heavily, Freddy lifted her head and met the concerned eyes of her husband. "There were letters from a London legal firm, Hunters, to my father, to say that he had a true and rightful claim to the title of Earl of Apley," she said. "The reason Alex was so completely demented is because he discovered he's a distant cousin of mine, descended through the line of the Countess of Stowe ... His counsel didn't bring it up in court because it would have made Alex's case seem even more premeditated and damning, especially as the letter said that said it was entirely possible that, should my father not wish to make a claim on the title himself, but that if I married a male cousin ..."

"Like Alex Harper?" Greg was getting the picture now.

"Yes," Freddy nodded. "Like Alex, then the cousin might be able to make a claim through my entitlement or ..." Freddy took a gulp of cooling coffee before meeting Greg's eyes again. "Or that I could make a claim on the title in my own right," she said deliberately, watching his face. "As Countess of Apley."

He could see by her flat and slightly penitent expression that this wasn't a joke, that she wasn't telling him this for any reason except that she felt he needed to know, that he _should_ know.

"So ..." he paused, looking for the right words. "You're telling me that you are ..."

"Yes," Freddy nodded. "I am, or, at least, I could be if I make a legal claim."

His special breakfast entirely forgotten now as the ramifications of this unexpected knowledge began to percolate deeper into his higher brain, Greg sucked in a breath. "You're telling me that you're a ... _really_ , a countess?"

"Apparently I have the legal right to claim the title," Freddy sounded weary.

"Christ on a bike," Greg exhaled noisily. "I always knew you were royalty."

"Not royalty," Freddy shook her head again. "Just a countess."

" _Just_ a countess?" Greg left his chair and was at her feet in a second, gazing up into her mildly unhappy face. "I come to Scotland on my honeymoon to see the sights and learn to fish and in between, I find out that my darling wife is an actual toff?" his smile was full of affection. "You great noodle. Why didn't you tell me about this before?"

"I was worried you might not like me anymore," Freddy sounded perilously close to tears. "I know you don't have a terribly high opinion of the landed gentry," she husked. "I didn't want to put you off."

"Oh, my little love," Greg stood, pulling her up with him and into his arms, wrapping himself entirely around her smaller frame, rocking her in his embrace. "You are such a dafty at times," he smiled into her hair.

"You say that now," she mumbled, but how would you like explaining being the husband of a countess to your Scotland Yard friends?"

"Oh my _god!_ " Greg leaned back and snorted with laughter. "I'd never hear the end of it. The lads would probably spray paint my desk gold for a start," he chortled. "I'd have to get some ritzy new business cards," he paused, thinking. "Does the husband of a countess get a fancy title?"

"I'm afraid not," Freddy looked up at him, her eyes suspiciously pink. "But if we had any children, the eldest would inherit the Apley title from me and the others would have the courtesy title of 'Honourable'" she blinked uncertainly.

The idea of children was something else that hadn't really raised its head with him, but on hearing Freddy say the word, Greg felt a sudden pressure inside his chest. Kids ... he'd never thought of having kids. _Oh my god_.

"You're saying ..." the breath catching in his throat, Greg swallowed hard. "You're saying that any child we had, the first child we had, could end up being the next Earl of Apley?"

"If our child was a girl, she'd be the next Countess of Apley," Freddy smiled, hugely relieved that he was taking the news so incredibly well.

"Fuck me sideways," Greg breathed out heavily, sinking back into his seat, an expression on his face that Freddy found difficult to identify.

 _If Freddy had a son ... my son ... he'd be an earl ..._ Greg's brain felt sluggish and unable to grasp the notion _. If I had a son with Freddy ... if we have children ..._ He swallowed hard again, suddenly thirsty. He gulped down his glass of orange juice. "I need some air," he said abruptly, striding into the conservatory and out through the glass door into the garden beyond, where the rolling, conifer covered hillside stood peaceful and untroubled. He remained with his arms folded tightly across his chest and his head bowed as his addled brain flung thoughts around in ever-decreasing circles. _If we had a child ... if we have children ..._ They'd not even had a discussion about children, not really. Freddy had told him that he didn't need to worry about contraception because she was taking care of it _... but what did that mean?_ Did he even want children? He was nearly fifty, for christ's sake ... kids? _At his age?_ Greg's heart thudded hard in his chest at the idea. He'd never thought ... because he hadn't with Cathy, not with anyone ... and now Freddy was saying ...

It was very peaceful out here at the rear of the cottage. The smooth lines of the land were gentle on his soul. There was nothing jagged or unnaturally out of place, even the rough grass lay neatly in smooth linear hummocks. There was nothing to affront the natural gentle contour of things. He could feel the damp softness of old bracken beneath his socked feet, where the scent of new growth reminding him it was summer. Everything in the landscape was worn down into comfort and tranquillity. In some way, it transferred quietude and Greg felt calmer as he absorbed the natural tones of the land, the greens and rusts and browns. The summer air was warm and sweet on his face and in his lungs. He felt his breathing slow and his heart grow serene. There was nothing out of place here, not outside or inside. This was a natural place and asked for natural thinking. With his thoughts finally falling into place, and taking a last deep breath, Greg returned to the house.

The kitchen was empty. There were no sounds of movement anywhere downstairs, so he walked lightly up the stairs to the bedroom. Freddy was curled up on the bed, hugging a pillow and doing her best not to weep. At that second, Greg hated himself. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached over and lifted her up and into his lap, pillow and all, wrapping his arms around her he held tight, self-loathing making him feel slightly nauseous.

"I'm an ungrateful bastard," he spoke softly but with some intensity. "You give me everything in your power to give," he continued, speaking above Freddy's head. "You give me all that a man could possibly imagine having and then you offer me even more and I get my knickers in a twist because I've never had to be responsible for anything this important in my life," his words maintained the same quiet but compelling tone. "I love you," he breathed in the sweet sunshine scent of her hair. "I adore you. I don't deserve you, but I promise here and now that I'll do my very best to give you whatever you need or want from me. Whatever it is, in whatever way I can provide it," he was almost whispering now. "I don't care one whit about any fancy title you have or don't have, but if you want a child or children, and if I can be part of that reality, then please let me show you how much I want that too." Greg closed his eyes and rested his face against the back of his wife's head. "I love you so much and I'm a stupid, stupid man. Please forgive me, Freddy. Please tell me I haven't spoiled things for us."

Freddy was no longer rigid in his arms, but neither was she relaxed.

He'd so totally fucked things up. This was supposed to be their honeymoon, for Christ's sake, a time for both of them to enjoy the first real shared intimacy ... and he'd ruined it all on almost the very first day. Closing his eyes tight, Greg called himself twenty different kinds of a fool.

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything before," Freddy's voice was so faint and soft, it sounded like the whisper of dried grass in the wind. "I didn't want to give you any reason not to like me and the longer I said nothing about it, the harder it became to bring it up at all."

"It's not your fault," Greg held her tighter. "It's not your fault that I'm a bloody arse."

"You're not an arse," Freddy sat up, holding herself free of his embrace, wiping at her eyes with the side of her hand. "I simply overloaded you with utterly unexpected information and you became a ... a little defensive."

"I acted like a fucking moron and you have every reason to despise me for it," he responded fiercely. " _I_ despise me for it, so you have just cause."

"You are an idiot," a faint smile curving her mouth, Freddy brushed several loose strands of hair away from his eyes. "And I love you beyond reason for it, for all of it."

Some of the ice in his chest seemed to loosen a fraction. "I mean it," he said in a more level tone, holding her gaze. "Whatever you want to do about any of this," he waved a generally hand in the air. "Whatever you want from me, then you have to know I'll be there for you. I just needed a minute to get my big boy's pants on, but I'm fine now and just so, _so_ sorry that I ..."

"Enough," Freddy laid soft fingers over his mouth. "It sounds like we both need to learn how to share things ... we're both of us so used to flying solo in so many parts of our lives. It'll be strange to change that, but I think we should try."

"Oh, _darlin'_ ," Greg closed his eyes and held her close again. "And after you went and made me such a spectacular breakfast as well," he shook his head as it rested against her shoulder. "I'm an ungrateful sod, I truly am."

Freddy's lips were soft and undemanding on his as she brushed his demons away with the lightest of touches. Smoothing her hand down the cleanly-shaved plains of his face, she kissed him a little more persuasively, curling a hand around the back of his neck, sighing quietly as she did so.

Greg found his hands sliding more naturally around her body as they moved into a more comfortable embrace, his mouth unconsciously opening and returning her deepening kiss with the gentlest of responses.

Turning in his arms and pressing herself almost entirely against his chest, Freddy controlled their kiss and groaned inaudibly as she felt his arms tighten around her, felt Greg's unbidden response to her. As he drew them both down to the surface of the soft bed, she felt her anxiety begin to melt away as heat and passion swirled into its place.

###

Despite the unexpected drama of earlier, Greg found it hard to stay worried by it. He felt a strange kind of peace inside him, like a still pool hidden deep in a wood. Something important had changed inside him, he could feel it but not yet give it a name. Honeymoons were clearly good for more than just romance and physical pleasure. He'd learned more about his relationship with Freddy in the last few hours than he had in almost the entire time they'd been together. The real eye-opener had been what he'd learned about _himself_. Without question, he knew now he'd give her his very last breath if she needed it. There wasn't even a question about that in his head. His feelings for her seemed to have coalesced into something so complete that anything else wasn't even an option. And so he smiled a quiet, private smile as they walked, hand-in-hand down the main street of Kelso, peering into the small shops bordering the main square. The bright colours of tourist-wares fluttered by him without leaving a ripple on his inner calm. The postcards, the tins of sweets and local crafts seemed to be on a different dimension and all he could feel and touch was the amazing sense of tenderness that curled, warm and comfortable, inside his chest. With the smile still shaping his mouth he held her hand a little tighter.


	10. Chapter 10

It was just as well the car they'd rented was a hatch. After Freddy had him fill two large thermos flasks with hot tea and hot soup, she went on to make ham and cheese sandwiches which she wrapped up in Clingfilm. Then there was a bag of apples, a box of sweet pastries from the local bakers and an enormous bar of the local chocolate. All of this provender went into a solid box in the back of the car which was already half-filled with unassembled rods, reels, a hefty wicker basket and a pile of wet-weather clothing. Then they'd gone to the nearest bait and tackle shop, which also happened to be the one Roddy suggested they visit for any additional fishing gear they might need. The shopkeeper looked at them assessingly.

"Ah ken ye'd be the London relatives of Mr Fairbairn?" he asked with an accent part way between Scottish and Geordie. "I have yer gear in the back," he glanced at the doorway behind him. "Shall ye be wanting aught else while ye're here?"

"Thank you, but no," Freddy's smile was kind. "Just the items that were ordered."

"Then I won't be but a minute," the man left them to their own devices, disappearing for several long moments. Returning with two heavy-looking and very large plastic bags, the shopkeeper balanced them both on top of the scratched glass counter. All Greg could make out of the contents were things that looked like rubber boots.

Paying the whole weekly rental for whatever they were renting, Greg smiled his thanks before heaving the bags into his hands and out to the car. There was barely any space left to wedge them in.

"I thought we were only going out for the day," he checked the satnav for directions to the fishing site Roddy Fairbairn had booked for them; it wasn't far. Trying to reverse out of the parking spot wasn't easy since the back of the car was packed high with gear. Maybe they should have rented a bigger vehicle.

"Believe me," Freddy fastened her seatbelt. "You'll be glad of everything here before the day's over," she smiled cheerfully. "I've done this before, don't forget."

Smiling, Greg leaned over and brushed a kiss across her mouth, the warm, oddly heavy feeling of affection still sitting front and centre in his chest. "I believe everything you say, my love," he said, starting the small car and heading off into the wilds of the Scottish border country.

"Down there, I think," after ten minutes driving, Freddy pointed to an overgrown lane, deeply muddy and pitted by heavy tractor wheels. Mentally crossing his fingers that the car wouldn't get bogged down; Greg tried to find the most solid bits of lane and edged gingerly down the slight incline.

At the bottom of the small slope, the space broadened out to reveal a wonderful expanse of smooth grassy verge, right at the edge of a wide and stone-rippled river. An unpaved track, big enough for a car, ran along the top of the back, heading upstream. Parking the VW in a way that would make it easy to head back up the lane later, Greg stepped out onto the grass only to be overwhelmed by the fresh scents of damp grass and pure, cold water. The sound of the swiftly-bubbling river was delicious in its clarity. The entire place was completely private; the only way anyone could see them would be if they came downstream on a boat or down the lane itself. Apart from the sounds of the water, the whole place was hushed and peaceful as the early morning sun began warming everything and laying an early shine across the water. Birds sang, or cheeped, or whatever they did in Scotland.

"My god, but this is fantastic," he breathed in hard, inhaling the wealth of natural perfumes assaulting his nose. "It's like we've just driven into a different world. It's bloody gorgeous."

"Thought you'd like it," Freddy grinned as she began unpacking stuff from the car, laying a thin rubber sheet on the damp grass before covering it with a thick and colourful picnic blanket. There were a couple of old cushions wrapped up in the middle, which she dropped to the ground to fall as they might.

"That's cheerful," Greg nodded down at the rug, the vivid green and red and blue even brighter in the early sun.

"It's the Roxburghe tartan," Freddy sounded slightly apologetic, almost hesitant. After the events of the previous day, Greg wasn't having that for a second.

"And it's a beautiful tartan," he bent and laid a smacker of a kiss on her cheek, squeezing her fingers. "You'll need to tell me all the old stories you know so I'm up to date with who was what in the family," lifting his eyes, Greg stared around the secluded little spot. "No wonder people like living up here," he said. "This is a fantastic place …" he paused, a little hesitant now himself. "I bet kids would love it around here."

"My sisters and I did whenever we came up here for family holidays," Freddy smiled as she unloaded gear from the VW. "Daddy knew the duke from when they were both in the army, you see," she added, tipping out the plastic bags to form two piles of heavy, rubberised wading gear. "Of course the current duke is a little older than you, but daddy met him at Sandhurst and they became fast friends, despite their age difference," she glanced across when Greg made no reply. There was an amused smile on his face. "What?"

"You're going to tell me you spent your holidays in a castle, aren't you?" he grinned suddenly. "When everyone else has a fortnight in Bournemouth, riding donkeys and getting sunburned, you were up here, gadding around in suits of armour and castles with drawbridges and the like," he moved closer and swung her dramatically into his arms. "Admit it," he teased, dipping her almost to the soft grass. "You used to play dress-ups as a princess, didn't you? _Hmm?_ "

Breathless with laughter, Freddy could barely speak, especially as she was now being tickled. "Yes, _yes_ ," she laughed. "We did, we did, now stand me back up, you brute."

"You really stayed in a castle?" Greg widened his eyes, smiling. "Truly?"

"Floors Castle, and yes we did," Freddy pushed him towards the rug. "Now take your clothes off." Uncertain if he'd heard her clearly, Greg paused, looking thoughtful.

"Only down to your jeans and shirt," Freddy rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Mr Lestrade, can't you think of anything other than sex?"

"That's Chief _Inspector_ Lestrade to you, Princess." Plonking himself down on the rug, Greg began untying his shoes. Busy with the larger pile of rubber, Freddy eventually unfolded a strangely baggy item of clothing, with boots at one end and short braces at the other.

"Your waders," Freddy held them up for him to see, handing him a thick pair of socks as well. "This will keep you dry no matter what you do, as long as you don't actually fall into the river," she added. "They can take a while to get into, but they're perfect for this river as it's relatively shallow with some nice deep pools for the salmon. Salmon like shade, you see."

Not really following the conversation with his complete concentration, Greg pulled the heavy socks on over his own, before standing, trying to work out the best way to put the waders on.

"Like this, darling." Freddy had already shucked her outer clothing, pulling another pair of thick fleecy socks over her own feet, tucking the bottom of her jeans inside them as she did. Sitting down on a nearby small boulder, possibly placed there for the exact purpose, she proceeded to wiggle first one foot and then the second into the boots of the waders. Standing, she inched the heaver rubber outfit all the way up to her chest, hooking the braces over her shoulders and tightening the buckles until everything was snug. Then she put her jacket back on top. "Easy," she grinned.

Giving his wife a sceptical look, Greg did his best to copy her demonstration, though he found the waders a little tight around his hips. Freddy came to help him.

"You're a big man, Chief Inspector," she breathed provocatively, looking up into his eyes, a teasing expression on her face as she tugged the rubberised material up and over his groin.

"Don't get me all excited when I'm wearing this clobber," Greg pulled the braces into place over his shirt. "By the time I got this off again, it'd be time to go home," he smiled down at her. "I love you more by the second," speaking quietly, he smoothed hair back from her face. "I hope you know that, Mrs Lestrade." He smiled, then stopped, uncertain. "Do you want to be called Mrs Lestrade?" he asked. "We never talked about it, did we?"

"There's a lot of things we never discussed, my love," Freddy wrapped her arms around his waist. "I don't mind, though I'd have to keep all my research activities and publishing in my maiden name," she said. "It's taken me years to build a reputation in my field and I'd rather not do anything to muddy the waters."

"Bit like having a super-hero name and an everyday name," he wiggled himself around inside the waders until he felt things settle into place. "Of course," he added, raising a sharp eyebrow, "I may end up having to call you _Countess_ ," he smiled again. "That might become a bit of a sexual fantasy, actually," he laughed, spinning himself away as Freddy picked up one of the cushions, prepared for battle.

###

His rod was a hellish device, sent by Scottish demons in retaliation for whatever the English had done up here several centuries before. Unlike a normal, sensible fishing rod, which had a bendy tip but was helpfully rigid for most of its length, this bastarding thing whipped around like an effing snake. It had a nice big cork handle, but the rest of it ... Taking a deep breath and rolling his shoulders to ease the build-up of tension, Greg set his jaw and was about to have another go at casting the thing when he felt Freddy's hand on his arm.

"Try this, darling," she smiled at him, holding up a small silver flask with the cap unscrewed. It was barely mid-morning and his wife was already offering him hard spirits. "It'll give you something else to think about."

Thinking that might not be such a bad idea, Greg took a long pull from the flask, _oofing_ slightly as the whisky burned down the inside of his chest. "Jeez," he coughed. " _Smooth_."

"Nothing but the best for you, my love," Freddy positioned herself behind his right arm. "Now take up some slack very loosely in your left hand, as I showed you how to do," she said, wiggling his right wrist until he relaxed and allowed her to move it for him. "Keep your wrist straight, and then you go like this ..." she waved the rod in his hand as if she were cracking a very long, light whip. "And then this ..." she did it again with a little more of a flick. "And then _this_ ..." On the last word, Freddy pulled his wrist back before setting it free on the down stroke as he naturally cast it forward. The heavy wet line flew out across the river, landing smack in the centre of a rill of bubbling water. They both watched as the bright pink fly at the end of the line bobbed and swirled as the current took it down stream.

"It's running away! What do I do now?" Greg turned an anguished face towards his wife as Freddy did her best not to laugh.

"Hook it back up the river with your wrist," she demonstrated, guiding his wrist to lift the line from the water and flick it back upstream. The pink fly floated gracefully back down to where it had just been. Greg tried it by himself, surprised at how very light the rod was and how little effort it took for him to make the fly zip through the air.

"Is that it?" he asked, not daring to take his eyes from the drifting pink fluff. "Is that what I'm supposed to do?"

"You're doing perfectly well, darling," Freddy stood to one side, watching him make a few tentative casts and recovers. "You'll be an expert by the end of the day."

Deciding he needed to man-up about the whole affair, Greg cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders from the semi-panic'd position he'd adopted. Nonchalantly lifting and flicking his line forward, he watched carefully as the pink fly plopped neatly back into the middle of the current. Turning his face a little sideways to catch Freddy's eye, he wiggled his eyebrows, waiting for her approval. "Now what do I do?"

"Carry on practicing your casts for a bit and then you can try aiming them at a specific spot," Freddy was checking her own rod to ensure everything was as it should be.

"Like where?" Greg searched the surface of the river, trying to see an attractive location for his fuzzy fly.

Smiling and shaking her head, Freddy pointed across to the far bank. "See that long smooth shaded stretch over there?" she asked. "See if you can cast your fly towards the top of that, and let your line drift along in the shadow. Try not to get caught in the trees, if you can," she smiled again, patting his arm as she collected her own rod and walked up the bank.

"Where are you going?" Greg tried to observe both his line and his wife as the two object moved further and further apart. Flicking the pink fly back allowed him to watch as Freddy, now a good sixty feet upstream, walk calmly out into the middle of the river. The water wasn't all that deep as if only came up to her thighs, but it was fast running and he watched as she braced herself against the current. Flicking his line back, he returned to watching his wife as she pulled out what seemed to be great long handfuls of fishing line, before twitching the tip of her long rod several times towards a flattish run of water even further upstream than she was. Greg was instantly impressed by Freddy's calm confidence and masterly handling of her line. It was clear he was watching a practiced fisherman ... fisherwoman, in action. With luck, they'd be eating fresh-caught salmon for dinner.

###

Collapsing down onto the rounded boulder Freddy had used earlier, Greg groaned as he eased his stiff back, unused to standing so still for such long periods. His knees ached too, as did his shoulders and his entire right arm. His stomach grumbled. He ached everywhere, he was starving and there'd been absolutely no sniff of a fish of any kind whatsoever. He was beginning to question Freddy's fishing ideas.

"Everything all right?" Freddy dropped her tackle down on the smooth grass and bent to kiss him. "Isn't it just lovely out here?"

"I'm getting a bit stiff, if you must know," Greg frowned, rotating his right arm. "I'm not sure I'm cut out for this lark, to be honest."

"That's only because you haven't caught anything yet," Freddy knelt on the rug and began unpacking the thermos flasks, pouring two mugs of soup. Handing one to her husband. "It's cock-a-leekie," she said, handing him the silver flask again. "Goes terrifically well with whisky."

"Soup and whisky?" Greg sounded unconvinced, but gave it a try. Taking a mouthful of the hot clear soup, he then tried a small taste of the liquor. As the tastes mingled and warmed inside him, he felt his spirits rise. "This is pretty good, actually," he nodded, trying some more soup.

"Now have one of these," Freddy handed him a thick sandwich so that both of his hands were busy. She sat down, drinking her own soup and inspecting the river. "I think, if you're game, that after lunch we could try walking upriver a little ways and see if we have better luck up there, where it's deeper."

"You going to be safe in deeper water?" Greg wiped soup from his chin with the back of his hand. "You're not the tallest person in the world, you know."

Turning her face up to the sun, Freddy grinned around a sandwich. "Size doesn't matter when you're fishing."

"Yeah, you say that now," Greg slid off the rock to rest on the tartan rug beside her. "But wait until you fall into one of those deep pools you keep telling me about and then we'll see what you say."

"As if I'd fall into a pool," Freddy scoffed.

"You never know," Greg sounded calculating as he scanned the horizon with narrowed eyes. "Stranger things have happened," he nodded slowly as he reached for one of the pastries Freddy had unwrapped.

"Is that a threat, Chief Inspector?" Freddy turned sideways to look at him, eyebrows raised. "Are you possibly threatening me with a dunking?"

"Stranger things have happened, is all I'm saying," Greg nodded thoughtfully as he kept his eyes on the water. "How much of this river is ours to fish?"

Blinking at the non sequitur, Freddy pointed upstream. "According to the map Roddy left for us, we have almost a mile on this beat," she said. "We can easily go upstream a good way and try again up there."

Reaching over for the thermos of tea, Greg pursed his lips as if he had some inkling of what he was doing. "Sounds reasonable."

As soon as they'd finished eating they picked up some gear; their rods, a long-handled net, the wicker basket, munching on apples as they headed up the river bank. While the car was still in sight, though by now, several hundred yards downstream, Freddy looked around as the river spread out a little more here, with a number of deeper runs of water in among the stony shallows. "This looks like a prime spot," she said. "Where do you want to go?"

Deciding that there was little point renting full wading gear if he didn't get in some serious wading, Greg cleared his throat and pointed to a slightly raised part of the river bed, some eighty feet further upstream. "I won't be in your way up there, will I?"

"I doubt it," Freddy threw her apple core into the river. "I'm going to be fishing that small pool over there," she pointed at a large patch of dark and slowly swirling water near the far bank.

"Right then," Greg sounded decisive. "Wish me luck."

The sun was high now and Greg reached in his pocket for the hat Freddy had given him. Not used to wearing headgear, he saw the logic of it as his nose began to burn in the sun and the top of his head was uncomfortably warm. The soft cotton hat with a wide brim made all the difference. Slipping sunglasses over his eyes, he turned his head to look downstream, marvelling silently as Freddy angled cast after cast, dropping a bright red fly into her chosen target every time. They fished in companionable silence for half-an-hour, until Freddy's excited cry caught his attention.

"Got a bite!"

"Want any help?" Greg called back, not entirely sure what help he could offer, but it was the thought that counted.

"Not at the moment," Freddy sang out as she lifted her rod over a straining line.

Left again to his own devices, Greg made a spectacular cast, much farther out than he'd planned to make and wondered if Freddy had seen it. About to reel in some of the long line, for the first time that day, he felt the plastic fibre grow tight and hard as resistance at the end threatened to pull the rod from his fingers.

Checking that his line hadn't snagged on a bush or a tree branch, or even on a rock at the edge of the river, taking a firmer grip on the cork handle, he tested the resistance again. This time, there was no doubting it; there was something moving on the end of his line and it wasn't coming quietly.

" _Freddy!_ " he called, his eyes fixed on the point where his line vanished beneath the surface of the river. It was rigidly taut and jerking from side to side with some determination. "I think I might have got something. What do I do now?"

"Hold it steady and keep reeling it in!" Still wrangling her own fish, Greg saw that he was going to have to manage this by himself. Keeping a firm tension on the line, he gradually began reeling it in, inch by inch. He pulled the rod closer to his chest, instinctively using the strength of his arms to raise the rod up from the horizontal. There was an increased resistance but he also felt a small sensation of movement. A gratifying feeling of achievement blossomed in his chest as he began a strategic battle of give and take between him and whatever it was at the other end of the line. The closer he managed to bring it in, the heavier and more frantic the resistance became until he could feel his forearms aching with the constant tension.

Thirty feet away, there was a sudden flash of silver as something very large and fish-like leaped partially out of the water before taking the line deep again. Gritting his teeth, Greg steadied his stance, taking some of the pull onto the line of his shoulders and his legs. Leaning harder into the resistance, he clamped his jaw tight as beads of sweat trickled down the side of his face. The rod handle slipped fractionally in his hands as his palms grew slippery.

The second time the fish leaped above the surface, it was only twenty feet off and was clear to see. A great long shining fish, covered in bright silver on its stomach with a darker coloured back. It was big, whatever it was. _Bloody big._ With his peripheral vision, Greg saw Freddy still fighting the good fight downstream, so it wasn't as if he could call for help. His arms burned with strain, but he knew that he had to keep reeling the fish closer towards him. The rod slipped again as the big fish jerked and thrashed, almost gaining its freedom as Greg felt his grip begin to weaken and fade.

"Hold on there, old chap!" a late middle-aged man wearing rubber boots and walking a couple of chocolate Labradors, came rushing into the water to give Greg a hand. "Looks like you've got a real battle on your hands."

"I've got no idea what I'm doing," Greg grunted the words as he struggled to maintain tension on the line. "I've never done this before."

"Just keep it coming in," the man advised. "Got a net?"

"Over on the bank near my wife," Greg blinked hard several times as sweat stung his eyes. The man disappeared, presumably off to fetch the net. Baring his teeth with effort, Greg hung on to the rod despite the maddened weight of the fish on the line. It was only a couple of minutes until the man was back, his dogs obediently staying on the bank despite their obvious and intense interest in the fishing activities.

"See if you can angle it toward the net," the man called, stepping into the water as far as his boots permitted and laying the net carefully out at arm's length.

"This sodding thing has a mind of its own," Greg growled, realising he didn't have much left to give. It felt like he'd hooked a fucking submarine. Still, there wasn't much line now between the end of the rod and the fish itself, less than fifteen feet at best. Leaning almost his entire weight against the fierce pull on the line, he swung to his left, clumsily guiding the fish towards the net. It took another minute to narrow the distance down a further five feet.

"Bugger this!" the net-holding man exclaimed striding forward, totally ignoring the fact that his boots were now entirely under the water. Reaching down, he slid the net sideways beneath the surface, neatly scooping the fish up and removing the strain from Greg's arms. With an enormous sigh of relief, Greg accompanied the man back to the bank where the two dogs sat, tongues hanging out and clearly desperate to get in the river.

Finally able to wipe his eyes, Greg mopped his face with the cotton hat, only then staring at the monster he'd brought in.

A massive salmon, three feet long if it was an inch, lay gasping on the grass.

"Keeping the catch?" the man, still holding the net raised his eyebrows.

"Dunno," Greg shook his head before leaning around the man to shout downstream. "Freddy, are we keeping the catch?" Still holding the net, the man's expression altered as he heard Freddy's name.

"Is it a good one?" she called, in the process of wading to shore with her own successful capture.

"It's fucking _enormous_ ," flexing his shoulders to stretch them back to a normal sensation, Greg grinned massively.

"Then we'll keep it and eat fish while we're here," Freddy called back, running as quickly as her waders permitted, up the bank towards the two men.

"If I may, then?" the man hefted a heavy river rock in his hand.

"Yeah, go ahead," Greg nodded, too exhausted to do anything else. With a single blow, the stranger ended the fish's struggles.

"My goodness," Freddy reached them, her eyes focused on the salmon. "It's a _monster_. We won't be needing this one, then." Lifting her hands up, she displayed her own catch. It was another salmon, but significantly smaller. "Back you go, my friend," she said, kneeling down at the edge of the water and allowing the still-living fish to wriggle swiftly off into the depths.

"Best catch I've seen so far this summer," the stranger stood back, smiling at the pair of them. "Hello, Freddy. It's been a while since you were last here."

Lifting her eyes from the fish, Freddy turned to look at the man who'd helped Greg land his catch. _Oh_.

"Your _Grace_ ," she smiled brilliantly. "I had no idea you were in residence."

"Oh, _Guy_ , _please_ , really," his lifted his hands in self-deprecation. "Just back from negotiations in China for a new whisky distillery in the area," the man smiled back. "Your mother invited us to your wedding but Louise and I had already committed to the China trip." He looked across to Greg. "This being the lucky man, I take it?"

"Allow me to introduce my husband," Freddy laid a possessive hand on Greg's aching bicep. "Gregory Lestrade, a Detective Chief Inspector in London's Metropolitan police."

Smiling widely, she met Greg's gaze. "Greg, may I introduce His Grace, the Duke of Roxburghe."

"Guy Innes-Ker," the man smiled again, lifting his hand. "Freddy's part of the family, although necessarily distant as she lives in London these days."

"Very pleased to meet you," Greg smiled back, shaking the man's hand and wondering for a second if swearing in front of a duke was still a hanging offence. Then he relaxed; it was what men did in times of battle. It was a bit hard to believe though, that this bloke, squishing wellies and all, was a proper duke.

"Well, now that I know you're both up here, what say you come for dinner this evening?" Innes-Ker looked down at the fish. "It would take you a month of Sundays to eat this one and I expect you're not here for that long, are you?"

Cottoning on, Greg looked relieved. He liked salmon, but perhaps not every night for two weeks. "It would be our pleasure to join you for dinner, Guy," he smiled widely. "As long as you will accept this beast as our contribution towards the occasion."

"Well, then, if you're sure?" The duke looked pleased. "At Floors for seven?"

"That would be super," Freddy knelt down and opened the wicker basket she'd had slung on a strap over her shoulder. "Will it fit in here?"

Between the three of them, they managed to get the huge fish into the basket, though the lid wouldn't close.

"Need a lift?" Greg nodded back at the VW down the bank before flicking his eyes to the basket on the grass. "That's going to get heavy."

"No need," Guy Innes-Ker grinned. "Got an old Landrover just around the bend," he said. "I best be off and give this to Chef, or I'll catch hell for not considering the Gallic sense of occasion."

"At seven, then," Freddy sounded happy.

" _À_ _tout à l'heure!_ " Guy waved as he whistled his dogs away and headed back upstream.

"My god," Greg exhaled loudly. "Did that just happen, or am I hallucinating from exhaustion?"

"Come on," Freddy grabbed his hand and pulled him along. "We've got plenty more time to fish while we're up here, but if we're going for dinner tonight, then we should make an effort to get tidy."

Checking his watch, Greg was astonished to see that it was already well after four. By the time they returned to the cottage, got cleaned up and then drove back to wherever the duke lived … "Come on then," he squeezed Freddy's fingers. "I've had enough of fishing for one day as it is."

"Thank goodness I hung your suit up when we unpacked," Freddy laughed.

Greg said nothing. He was about to have dinner with a duke.


	11. Chapter 11

By the time they'd unpeeled themselves from the cumbersome waders and repacked the car, Greg was beginning to feel the aftermath of his recent battle.

"You did brilliantly back there, by the way," Freddy slid into the passenger's seat, turning a wide smile towards him. "For someone who'd never held a fly rod before, to land that enormous fish on your first day is really quite outstanding," she added, patting his thigh in approval. "My husband, the great angler."

"Yes, well," Greg started up the VW and brought the steering wheel around until the car faced up the lane. "I'm not sure I want a repeat of that little experience in a hurry," he grumbled, even though her praise had lifted his mood. "My muscles are already telling me how sorry I'm going to be tomorrow."

"Have a nice soak in the bath when we get back to the cottage," Freddy suggested. "I'll bring you a scotch and you can ruminate on your spectacular success," she paused. "You also handled Guy well, if I might make the observation. Not everyone is comfortable when they first meet British nobility like that."

Gunning the car up the lane which had dried during the day and offered better traction, Greg smiled. "He seemed a decent enough sort of bloke," he said. "Not like some of the toffs I've met in London at crime scenes and in court."

"Might there be a correlation between those two facts?" Freddy speculated. "I doubt being involved with crime at any personal level would be conducive to good manners."

Keeping his eyes on the road, Greg shook his head. "Some people are instinctively pleasant," he said, "like you and your mother. And some are complete tossers, no matter how many silver spoons they were born with."

"Oh well," Freddy smiled. "I think today was very successful in all sorts of ways."

"You're a very nice person, you know," Greg felt content. "If I wasn't already madly in love with you, it wouldn't take me long to get there."

Saying nothing, Freddy laid her hand on the top of his jean-clad thigh for the rest of the way back to the cottage.

"Hang on, before we go in," Freddy opened the back of the car. "We need to rinse these inside and out and let them dry or they'll get dreadfully smelly," she said, pulling out the bags containing the rubber waders. "They'll need to hang outside overnight," she headed for the side gate and the rear garden.

There was a tap and a hose reel and a small, convenient tree. "You hold them and I'll use the hose," she said, as Greg lifted the first pair up for their wash. In a matter of minutes, both sets of waders were hanging upside down, with the boots wedged firmly between a couple of handy tree-branches.

Greg's back seized as he tried to move, a long groan forced itself from his chest. "Christ, I'm sore," he complained, trying to stretch the ache out.

"Go and run a nice deep bath and I'll be up in a minute," Freddy was already heading into the cottage.

"Gonna join me?" Greg lifted his eyebrows, half-heartedly teasing.

"In your current state, I'd probably be arrested for involuntary manslaughter," Freddy smiled sweetly. " _Go_ ," she ushered him upstairs.

Running himself a deep hot bath, Greg sniffed one of the glass jars of green bath oil sitting on the vanity. It had a pleasing woody aroma, so he dolloped some under the running water. The fragrant steam filled the small room as he peeled off his sweaty clothes onto the floor. Barely had he wriggled himself into the water when Freddy arrived bearing a heavy glass tumbler filled to a respectable level with amber liquid.

"Soak as long as you feel like," she said, handing him the scotch. "I'm going to have a shower and get ready. Is there anything you'd like me to lay out for you? I was thinking the pearl-white shirt and the pale blue tie would be comfortable this evening with your suit," she said. "Fortunately, it's not black tie tonight."

"I don't even own a proper dinner jacket," submerged in scented bubbles to his chin, Greg inhaled the warming spirit and felt things loosen up as his shoulders unknotted. "So it's just as well."

"It wouldn't really matter what you wear, if you'd rather not bother, you know," Freddy perched on the side of the perilously full bath and combed hair from his face with her fingers. "It's probably only the family tonight, so casual attire would be fine."

"But what are _you_ going to wear?" Greg looked up, curious.

"I've got a nice blue dress I bought in case we went anywhere special," Freddy smiled down at him. "This might be an excellent opportunity to give it a first outing."

"Looks like I'll be needing my suit then," Holding the glass high, Greg dipped his head under the water and then wiped his eyes dry. "Can't let my gorgeous new wife down, can I?"

"Such a silly," Freddy laughed fondly. "You enjoy your soak while I get our clothes ready."

In what seemed like a very short time, she was back, wrapped in a thin robe, which she slipped off and draped over the warm radiator. Moving around the bathroom completely naked and unconcerned, Freddy was deliciously unselfconscious. Wallowing in his steamy bath, Greg watched his wife prepare for her shower and felt his desire for her, never really far away, come roaring back. Not wanting to spoil the mood, he remained silent and sipped his drink instead.

Stepping into the glassed shower stall, Freddy quickly shampooed her hair, giving her skin a thoroughly good scrub as she let the conditioner do its job. Greg had never really noticed how fine her ankles were, or how elegant were the shape of her feet and calves. He'd always said that she was gorgeous but now, watching her with an oddly clinical eye, he realised that Freddy wasn't just gorgeous, but truly beautiful. Knocking back the rest of his scotch, he gave everything a quick scrub and hauled himself out of the bath, remembering at the last second to wipe down the tub as it emptied. Wrapping a towel around his hips, he was ready with another as Freddy stepped out of the shower. Ignoring the curious expression on her face, he wrapped her up in the fluffy cotton fabric and into his arms, holding her tight.

"You are the most amazing woman I've ever known," he rested his forehead against hers. "I only hope I can be as good for you as you are for me."

"Oh _darling_ ," Freddy wrapped her arms around his waist, smiling. "I only wish I could match your romantic streak."

"I think we get by," Greg brushed her mouth with his lips, instantly tempted to spend the next hour kissing her into a complete frenzy. "We'd better get dressed, don't you think?" he groaned softly as Freddy pressed herself deeper into his embrace. "Can't keep a duke waiting for his guests."

"Perhaps just a little wait?" Freddy nibbled his throat and earlobe, giving him goosebumps.

" _Ahh_ , you wanton woman," Greg felt his knees, already weakened after the tussle with the fish, grow even more wobbly. "Best not," he sighed, regretfully. "It would be rude to be late."

"You're quite right, husband," Freddy drew herself away, smiling happily up at him. "Perhaps later."

###

"I suppose you know the way there by road?" Greg buckled himself into the car. He smiled as Freddy laughed.

"Simply head for the town and you'll see the way to go," she grinned, adjusting the skirt of her sleeveless ballerina dress. In Forget-me-not blue, with a faint print of green leaves and white flowers, she looked very elegant Greg thought, as he watched her dress. Her fine skin already displayed the lightest sheen of freckles.

It hadn't been until he'd slung the suit jacket over his shoulders that he'd felt a weight in one of the pockets. Sliding his fingers inside, he'd discovered the box with the bracelet he'd bought Freddy as a wedding gift. He'd meant to present it to her after the ceremony, but with one thing and the next, it had totally slipped his mind.

"Hey," he said, bringing the box into the light. "I got this for you and, what with all the excitement, completely forgot about it. _Sorry_ ," he looked across the room as Freddy was putting some white pearl studs in her ears. "It might go nice with your dress though," he added, opening the box and offering it to her. "I had it made for you. What do you think?"

The green and gold leaves interspersed with white pearls seemed to glow in the setting sun, as the dainty enamelled metals lay beguilingly in their satin bed.

"Oh, Greg, it's simply _lovely_ ," Freddy reached out and immediately slid it around her wrist, fastening both the snap and the safety catch. Lifting her hand into the air so that the gold caught the sunlight, she smiled, delighted. "It's adorable and perfect with my dress. Thank you, darling. It's very sweet and thoughtful of you."

And now, sitting in the car, Greg found himself smiling again as he watched Freddy still admiring her gift. All in all, it had been an eventful day and it wasn't over yet. Dinner with a duke! Donovan wasn't going to believe a word of it.

As the car headed into Kelso, Greg caught sight of a signpost 'Roxburghe Street', together with a second sign directly beneath it "Floors Castle'.

"I see the castle has its very own road," Greg lifted his eyebrows. "Hard to get lost."

"I did say you'd know the way to go," Freddy touched up her lipstick in the vanity mirror. "It'll be fun to catch up with everyone. I haven't been at the castle in years."

"Tell me then," Greg kept his eyes on the road as he took the castle turning. "Who's likely to be there tonight?"

"Well, Guy, obviously," she said. "And Duchess Louise; you'll like her, I think. She has a dry sense of humour at times. You can call her 'Your Grace' but I bet she'll tell you not to bother. And the offspring might be there too, or at least one or two of them. Guy and Louise have four children. Robert, Francesca, Nina and Charles, the youngest, who has to be nearly thirty. There may be some friends for dinner tonight as well," Freddy paused, looking at him with a slight turn of her head. "Are you sure this isn't going to make you feel terribly uncomfortable?"

Remembering how rigid and distressed her body had been in his arms only the previous evening, Greg smiled and shook his head. "If anyone starts to piss me off, I can always threaten them with arrest," he grinned. As the VW left the relatively narrow road, they drove through a long avenue of tall sycamore trees in glorious summer leaf and onto a wide sweeping drive. Bang in front of them was Floors Castle.

It was huge.

Slowing the car to a crawl, Greg tried to take the whole thing in, but the building was too colossal to see in its entirety this close up. The immense central edifice was flanked on both sides by two equally vast wings. It was a proper castle, too, with flying buttresses and crenelated battlements; though Greg felt there was also a touch of a French chateau; too many glass windows and fancy bits of architecture for a fortified castle.

" _Bloody hell_ ," he felt his voice come out whisper-dry. "All that for one family?"

"Hardly," Freddy patted his leg in a wifely way. "Most of the central section, the East wing, the main reception rooms and gardens are open to tourists and the public for weddings and the like," she said. "The family live in the West wing with the in-house staff having their own accommodation in the building just behind that. It's far too large for the family these days."

"Then why was it built to be so _big?_ "

"Because the family used to be immensely wealthy and had kings as friends," she said simply. "And when one is in the habit of hosting royalty, one must also be able to host the royal entourage, which, at times meant the entire court."

"Bloody hell," Greg inhaled hard and blinked as he drove the car past great fields of lawn.

"Take the drive on the left side," Freddy pointed to the gravel drive that curved around the west wing. "That's where everyone will be parked this evening."

Following instructions, Greg took the VW around the side of the castle, finding a large circular driveway at the back. There were already several cars parked on the building side of the drive. Half expecting to see Maserati's and Lamborghinis, he was slightly disappointed to observe a couple of well-used Range Rovers and an early model Jaguar. No sooner had he pulled the car in beside the Jag than Guy came bouncing out of a large and ornate door.

"Perfect timing!" He waved, smiling broadly. Greg was slightly relieved to see the man wore a light summer lounge suit with a dark tie.

"Louise can't wait to catch up with you, Freddy," he leaned down to help her out of the car, kissing her fondly on both cheeks. "And to thank the man who not only furnished us with a splendid dinner, but with at least one very decent after-dinner story." Stretching out a hand, he waited for Greg to shake it.

With a natural smile shaping his face, Greg felt decently welcomed.

"I only hope we're not putting anyone out, coming for dinner at the last minute."

"Oh, think nothing of it, old man," Guy Innes-Ker slapped him on the shoulder. "Gives Chef someone new to impress and that's always a good thing, as you'll no doubt see for yourself. Shall we go in?"

Even if this was only one wing of the vast structure, it was still massive, with soaring painted ceilings and walls lined from top to bottom with dark portraits framed in heavy gilded frames. The floor beneath his feet was beautifully-laid parquet, covered in exquisite handmade carpets; Greg was fairly certain you couldn't get anything like this down at the local Carpet World. Every scrap of furniture he could see looked like an antique, lovingly polished to a gleaming finish. There was a pervasive scent of fresh flowers mingled with a hint of floor polish that Greg found quite appealing. With a small shock, he realised that the Pimlico house might look a bit like this, one day.

Leading them through the evening-darkened hallways and reception rooms, the duke brought them at last to a tall half-opened door, flooded with light. The sound of quiet voices came from within. Following Freddy through the open door, Greg saw there were three other couples in the room beside their hosts, though because the room itself was very large, there still seemed to be acres of empty space.

"We're all here now," Guy announced as he walked in, beaming and turning to the rest of those present. "I think everyone here knows Freddy, but I'd like to introduce a new chum, Greg Lestrade; Freddy's husband a fine angler and a lucky man to boot!"

"Lucky is right," Greg smiled around. "Both in marriage and fishing." He nodded politely at his host. "You landed the fish though, for which I was incredibly relieved."

" _Nonsense_ , old boy," Guy laughed. "I only held the net; you did all the hard work. Drinks, everyone?" Nodding to a uniformed staff member standing with a silver tray of drinks, the duke offered a heavy silver cigarette box around.

"Allow me to introduce myself, since my husband has so appallingly neglected to do so," a tall woman in her fifties, with mid-length chestnut hair came forward, extending her right hand. "Get Guy talking about fishing and we'll all end in a stupor," she smiled gently. "Louise Innes-Ker," she said. "Lovely to have you both here this evening. Freddy, it's been positively years, my dear. How are you?"

"Your Grace," Greg smiled as he took her hand. "Freddy has been telling me stories of the times she spent in this castle as a child."

"Oh, please, _Louise_. None of us stand on ceremony here," the woman threw him a charming smile. "Let me introduce you to the rest of the gang," she paused, turning to indicate a young man and woman sitting on an elegant embroidered couch.

"My youngest son Charles, currently home from his PhD studies at York," Louise smiled at the young man with the same colour hair as his mother. "And his good friend Fiona Wallace, the most patient of young women to ever put up with him," she smiled, waiting as hands were shaken.

Indicating a middle-aged couple each taking a tall champagne glass from the tray of drinks. "John and Claire Bowen-Ryder, up from Staffordshire for the Border Union Show, and Julia and Hugo Ridley passing through on the way home to Northumberland," smiling, she indicated the drinks being passed around. "Please, do feel free to help yourself."

"Guy told us you landed a prime specimen this afternoon," John Bowen-Ryder, a man of middle height, tanned, with a congenial smile. "I've fished that stretch before for hours and hours, and never caught so much as a tiddler."

"Beginner's luck," Greg helped himself to a glass of champagne, the cool rush of bubbles in his mouth a pleasing sensation. He was beginning to really enjoy the taste of the stuff and blamed Freddy entirely for it. "Seriously, I was about to chuck the whole thing in until Guy saved the day, even though he might have lost his boots in the process."

"It was the most excitement I've had in weeks," Guy held an elegant cigarette, a particular fragrance in the smoke. "Being able to dash in and help a fellow man has given my ego an enormous lift," he grinned, pleased. "And Freddy," he looked her up and down. "I have to say that married life seems to be agreeing with you, my dear."

"I have been very fortunate in the finding of my husband," she smiled happily, turning briefly to glance at Greg. "Mummy adores Greg too," she arched her eyebrows. "And you know how she can be."

"Ah yes, the indomitable Gwendoline," Julia Ridley laughed. "And how _is_ your dear mother these days?"

By the time dinner was announced, some forty minutes later, Greg had already discovered that Louise Innes-Ker was a proper sweetheart, that her youngest son was a bit of a dick and that the pretty Fiona was a farmer's daughter, with an earthy turn of phrase. He also knew that John Bowen-Ryder had an unnatural passion for large agricultural machinery and Julia Ridley had a well-hidden soft spot for their host. Freddy, it seemed, knew everything about everyone in the room and was currently displaying her new bracelet to the lovely, if bracing, Fiona.

Advised that dinner would be served in the small dining room, Greg polished off the last of his fizzy and took the seat their hostess indicated. Apparently it was the done thing not to sit next to your wife and he found himself lodged between Julia and Claire.

The table itself could have sat another half-dozen people with ease, but the extra space was pleasant and allowed everyone room to relax a little. The white linen tablecloth was decorated with long glass centrepieces filled with fresh red, pink and white flowers. At three places along the table, tall silver candelabras stood holding flickering white candles. Staring down at the range of glasses and silverware around his place-setting, Greg had only the vaguest of ideas which ones to use for what. However, he'd been a detective for a very long time and he knew a thing or two about the fine art of observation. Not that it mattered if he got anything wrong; he was feeling quite comfortable in the group, especially since he'd discovered that John Bowen-Ryder was the owner of the Jaguar standing outside and had a long-time yen for classic cars. And so he sat, a happy smile on his face, chatting with Julia about the main differences between life in London and life on the Borders and with Claire about different policing methods in town and country. Glancing up, he saw Freddy frown at something the duke had just said, though he was too far away to hear what it was.

The soup course arrived, something green, vaguely minty and delicious. There were small bread rolls in the shape of flowers and, of all things to have with soup, a fine pale sherry. Greg had never tried soup and sherry together before, but then, he'd not tried soup and whisky before today and that had turned out just fine. To his great surprise, the sherry was very subtle and matched the soup perfectly. It was only after he'd polished the lot off that he realised two things. That he was eating faster than anyone else and that he was ravenous. Taking another bread roll, he nibbled until everyone had finished.

Almost instantly, staff appeared to clear the table and lay the second course. In this case, a massive silver salver, lidded, of course, that was placed lengthways down the open centre of the long table. When the domed cover was lifted with a small flourish, Greg saw a very long, very large fish, laid out, cooked and decorated with glassy slices of cucumber, leaves of mint and quarters of lemon.

"It seems Chef has gone all Edwardian on us," Guy laughed cheerfully at the sight of the ornate fish dish. "What do you think of your afternoon's work now, Chief Inspector?"

"I think I'm glad Freddy and I didn't consider taking it back to the cottage with us," he grinned. "Besides, it's one of your fish, isn't it?"

"Only technically," Louise arched her eyebrows. "The fishing rents pay for the river maintenance and stock upkeep," she added. "But one can never go wrong with fresh salmon, I feel."

It was, as Greg was swift to agree, absolutely delicious. It hadn't quite sunk in yet that it was his hard work that had brought this thing to the table he was currently sharing with a duke and a duchess. There was a lovely crisp white wine with the fish course that complimented the heavy salmon perfectly. Despite his earlier uncertainties, Greg realised he was really enjoying this meal. Both Guy and Louise seemed very pleasant and he could see that Freddy was in her element.

Immediately after the remains of the salmon were removed, fresh plates were laid, and they were apparently into a meat course. Greg inspected the rather ornate dining plate before him, containing three dainty lamb cutlets and several asparagus spears. It seemed almost too stylish to spoil, however as everyone else was digging in ... Feeling the worst of his hunger fade, he was able now to enjoy the little mouthfuls. The wine with this course was a light rosé, fragrant and delicate on the palate. Unable to help himself, Greg looked around the table and smiled, pleased that the evening was turning out so well.

"You're looking very happy," Claire nibbled some asparagus. "Had an epiphany?"

"Sort of," Greg inhaled slowly and lifted his eyebrows. "I'm having a really nice dinner with a bunch of very pleasant people who I've never met before tonight," he smiled back at her. "My wonderful new wife is in her element and I caught an enormous great big fish for the first time in my life," he gave a slight shrug. "I suddenly realised that these are the good times," he tried the rosé again. "It's too easy to only remember the bad times, so moments like this are important to spot," he paused and looked momentarily thoughtful. "Or it may be that I've had a drop too much wine. I'm usually more of a beer kind of guy to be honest."

"I think Freddy's supremely lucky," Claire laid her silverware down on her plate. "The pair of you are simply glowing," she added, sounding mildly envious as she glanced across the table to where Charles sat, chatting to his mother. "Of course you need to remember these happy moments." It was her turn to pause. "You're not a bit as I imagined a police Chief Inspector to be," she said candidly.

Before he could make the obvious response, yet another course was brought to the table, a large roast bird of some kind. It looked as big as a turkey, but Greg saw it had a longer shape to it. He suddenly hoped it wasn't swan. He'd heard things about dinners in these big country houses.

"I hope you like goose," Louise Innes-Ker smiled at him from her end of the table. "Chef does so like to produce one when we have guests. It's his pièce de résistance."

Realising he was also being served with yet another white wine, Greg started to feel a little full. Sipping water instead of the alcohol, he nibbled only a small portion of the admittedly fabulous food and wondered how much longer this dinner was going to last.

"Don't panic, we're almost there," Fiona stage-whispered at his side. "Only the sugar-coma to go an' we can ai' run fer the hills."

"I seriously doubt running is in my near future," Greg whispered back as he dared a sip of the most luscious wine. He almost groaned with pleasure. No wonder there were so many rich alcoholics in London; if this was the quality of the stuff they drank on a regular basis, it would be hard not to succumb.

Finally, after a peach tarte with cream which, in all honesty, Greg wouldn't have dreamed of trying to resist, the table was cleared, only to be redressed with crystal decanters of port and a cheeseboard so large it has to be carted around on a wheeled trolley. About to seek his wife's attention so his eye-rolling might be properly witnessed, he paused as he observed Freddy and Guy Innes-Ker deep in another conversation. Even from where he was sitting, it looked fairly serious. Despite the fact that he probably wouldn't be able to move from his seat for the next couple of days, Greg felt his copper's antenna twitch.

 _Something was up_. And by the looks on their faces, it wasn't good.

Declaring himself unable to look at another crumb, Greg was persuaded to accept a small cup of aromatic coffee. Watching as John Bowen-Ryder took his and stood, walking across to a tall window as the last of the evening sun dimmed down to the horizon, he felt able to do the same thing. Once he managed to struggle to his feet, he didn't feel quite so stuffed, but not by much. A bit of gentle walking about would be just the thing.

"Freddy suggested I should show you the private gardens before it comes in completely dark," Guy Innes-Ker walked around the table as others got to their feet with their coffee or tiny glasses of fine cognac. "It's a lovely warm evening and it won't take long."

Keeping his expression neutral, Greg's instincts told him he was about to find out what had made Freddy frown earlier on. He wondered what it might have to do with their host. Sipping the last of his coffee, he put the fine china down and followed the duke out of a door at the far end of the room and down another longish passageway. This one was lined with watercolours and prints of the Scottish countryside. At the far end were a pair of large glass French doors which opened out onto … Greg felt the breath catch in his chest.

The most enormous walled garden. In full summer flower, his eyes took in the formal pathways and hedges; the white gravelled spaces, the trees he now recognised from the Pimlico garden … His eyes slid to the figure of his wife who stood, arms hanging simply at her side. The look on Freddy's face made him wish for a camera in his hand but he felt that dragging his phone out might not be the most polite thing to do.

" _Darling_." At the sound of his footsteps across the pristine gravel, Freddy turned, smiling. "Isn't this beautiful?"

"It certainly is," he returned her smile, his eyes not leaving her face.

"Thank you for coming out here, old man," their host sounded a little awkward and Greg immediately knew his suspicion had been correct. Something was up and it involved the three of them. But what? He'd only just met the man.

"Darling, Guy was telling me over dinner about an odd letter he'd received from his London legal people," Freddy reached for her husband's hand. "From Hunters, in Lincoln's Inn."

"I know of them," Greg nodded. He knew a great many London legal firms by name and reputation. His job made that knowledge very useful. "What about them?"

Guy looked troubled. "They wrote to me about a week ago regarding a legal counsel from Stevens & Co., who had advised them he was the legal representative of the Countess of Apley." The duke's concern was immediately obvious. If anything was happening to the title, he would obviously be one of the first to know about it. _But then, so would Freddy_. He met her eyes.

"And what do you know about this?"

Freddy looked more puzzled than anxious as she held his gaze. "Well, that's the problem," she said. "Stevens & Co. sent me a letter before the wedding," she frowned again. "But I've not had a chance to reply. I have no idea what's going on."


	12. Chapter 12

In the space of two seconds, Freddy watched her husband turn into a detective. There was something about the changing focus of his eyes, an indefinable new tension in his stance, a slight flattening at the corners of his mouth. One moment, Greg was her happy, sociable husband and the next ... a small shiver crawled up her spine. She'd never seen him put on his policeman's face before.

"May I see the letter?" he asked quietly. "It might be easier to get the details first hand."

"Of course, old man," Guy nodded. "Come to my office, the both of you. I can provide you with my City solicitors' details as well, if you like, if you think you might want to get in touch with them when you get back to London."

The duke's office seemed much like the rest of the building. Spacious, high-ceilinged and with the obligatory wood-panelling around the walls. A couple of solid-looking chairs and a pair of dark leather settees that looked well used and comfortable. There were more paintings in here too, though these were smaller and somehow more personal, dogs and small children. There was even a nice one of a much-younger duchess; that bright chestnut hair was unmistakable.

Crossing the elegantly carpeted floor to a substantial and cluttered desk, Guy Innes-Ker pulled one of the drawers open, lifting out an unfolded letter. "Apparently, your father was involved in discussions with them shortly before his death," Guy handed the paper to Greg, though his gaze went to Freddy. "Have you any idea what this is all about?"

Freddy sighed heavily. "I suspect this is a legacy of Alex Harper," she said, sinking into the settee, passing a hand across her face.

"Wasn't he the man who ..?" Guy glanced at Greg before turning to look at her again, clearly concerned.

"Yes, he was." His lips pinched, Greg read swiftly through the brief letter. It provided little information apart from the fact that they'd been contacted by someone called Douglas Henshaw, a man claiming to represent a legitimate claimant for the title of Countess of Apley. Mr Henshaw, himself a partner at Stevens & Co., claimed to be acting with the claimant's full knowledge and permission. Greg clamped his back teeth together. Despite being locked up in gaol for the best part of the next ten years, it seemed that Alex Harper was the gift that kept on giving. "Did you even read the letter Stevens sent you?" he turned to Freddy who looked faintly uncomfortable. It was plain that something was on her mind. "What?" he said. "What is it?"

Blinking slowly, Freddy shook her head and sighed again. "I'm not sure I wanted to get into this conversation," she made a face. "Not now, not any time, really."

"Dearest Freddy," Guy Innes-Ker smiled inquiringly at her. "You know you can tell me anything, but if you'd rather be alone ..?" he glanced between the newlyweds.

"No, Guy," Freddy inhaled briefly and sat up straighter. "If I have to face this thing, then I can't imagine two better people to give me the advice I need to hear."

Laying the letter down on the desk, Greg took a seat in the settee opposite so he could watch her face. He'd known this whole topic was difficult for her to speak about for some reason and for a moment, he wondered if it was because of him. That she'd worried how he might handle any information she shared. He winced inwardly as he remembered his reaction of the previous night. If Freddy had been concerned about his response, she hadn't been wrong. But at least he could man-up and do the right thing now.

"Sweetheart," he leaned forward. "If there's anything you want to discuss with Guy and not me, I'll gladly leave you two in peace, if you prefer?"

"Not you as _well_ ..." Freddy looked up swiftly. "Don't even think about leaving, Greg ... you need to hear this more than anyone else."

Lifting his eyebrows and nodding fractionally, Greg waited. Long years of experience getting witnesses to tell their stories made him offer a small smile. "No pressure, love," he leaned over and squeezed her good knee. "Just tell it as you see it."

You remember how Alex was that day in Harrow," Freddy began slowly, looking hesitant and searching for the right way to give context to her information. "The reason he was so angry, apart from the fact that I had just rejected his marriage proposal, was because he wanted to see some of my father's old papers and I wouldn't permit it."

"Yeah," Greg nodded, knowing now what those papers actually were. "That's what came out at the trial, though his barrister said they were only old letters about property and family, didn't he? At least, that's what was said in court. Everyone wondered why he'd got himself into such a state after your mother had given him all the other papers and documents he'd asked her for."

Flicking a look towards Guy perched on the end of the coffee table between the settees, Freddy blinked awkwardly as the duke smiled his encouragement.

"Just about everyone in the family knows the reason that the Apley earldom fell into dormancy was because William Kerr, the second Earl of Apley died in eighteen-thirty-five without legitimate issue, male or female." Sitting straighter, Freddy assumed a more business-like tone. "However, in my father's papers, I found a letter, together with a diagram of the Kerr family tree, suggesting that William had in fact married his lady-love before he left for the Zulu Wars and that their son, Charles, was legally, by right of marriage and entitlement, the Apley heir."

" _Did_ it now?" Guy Innes-Ker grinned widely at the news, his eyes wide open and interested. "Then, whatshername, the woman, the wife ..."

"Beatrice Howard," Freddy interjected.

"Yes, thank you," Guy arched his eyebrows as he contributed to the conversation. "Then this Howard woman was legally the Countess ..." he paused abruptly. "But if so, why wasn't she recognised as such when William died in Africa?" he demanded. "There surely would have been a marriage certificate somewhere? Even if the document itself was lost, there'd be parish records of the ceremony?"

"If Beatrice Howard had been Kerr's mistress and wound up pregnant and apparently unmarried ..." Greg was pragmatic. "Back then, she wouldn't have been treated kindly, would she? It probably wouldn't have taken much back then for someone to accidently lose a page from a church register, would it?"

"As far as I could tell from daddy's papers, there was barely a mention of her name," Freddy frowned. "It's possible that if the marriage had been kept deliberately secret from the family because of what they might think, then it's equally possible that Beatrice was too intimidated to make a legal claim for her rightful position, especially if she had been a servant or someone from the lower class." Frowning again, Freddy bit her lip. "It's a terrible thought, but it's also conceivable that if Beatrice was poor, she might have been bought off."

"Told not to make a claim if she wanted financial support for her and her child. Told to be quiet and sent to live somewhere quiet, out in the country somewhere?" Guy looked sour. It had been done before. The British upper class were not noted for their consideration of those 'beneath' them.

A thought jumped into Greg's head and wouldn't let him be until he'd given it shape. "Sweetheart," he asked slowly, turning to look at Freddy. "How long has your mother's Harrow property been in your family?"

"The Harrow place?" Freddy narrowed her eyes as she hunted in her memories for the details. "I know daddy's family had lived there for ages, even before the Pimlico house was built in the eighteen-fifties and everyone thought that it was part of the original Apley bequest ..." she paused, her jaw dropping fractionally as Greg's idea migrated into her own thoughts. " _Oh_."

The duke wasn't exactly slow off the mark either as he nodded sagely as the same thought struck him. "Whoever didn't want Beatrice making a claim on her deceased husband's inheritance could have bought her silence by deeding her first the Harrow and then the Pimlico properties." Guy looked first at Freddy and then Greg. "It makes a horrible sort of sense, though who would do such a dreadful thing to a young widow with an infant?"

Greg raised his eyebrows unsmilingly. "Generally, when there's a crime with no apparent motive, we follow the money," he sniffed with distaste and wished he had a glass of something in his hand that would mitigate the bad taste in his mouth. "Assuming our understanding of the situation is more or less correct, then who would gain from cutting Beatrice and her son off from their rightful inheritance? If they were out of the picture, who would benefit?"

Guy puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled in thought. "When the Apley title fell vacant, all the estates and land titles automatically reverted to the Crown," he said. "Though the chattels and furnishings, the earl's own personal belongings, would naturally go to his next of kin."

"And who was William Kerr's next of kin?" Greg felt that the answer to this might shed light on a number of other points as well. Freddy and Guy shared a look as they rattled their brains for details of family history. Looking suddenly contemplative, the duke walked across to a nearby bookcase.

"I believe William's mother died not long after the birth of her youngest child ... there were three siblings in all, I think," Freddy screwed up her face in an effort of memory. "William was the eldest ..."

"And had two sisters," the duke opened a heavy leather-bound book on the coffee table between them. An ancient thing, the thick pages looked to be hand-written with faded black ink. "Part of the Roxburghe chronicles," he smiled helpfully at Greg's unspoken question. Guy peered down at the page beneath his hand. "The eldest sister was Victoria, though she married and went to live in India in the early eighteen-hundreds, just as the Raj was beginning," Guy ran a careful finger down the faint lines of cursive script. "Married Franz Phillip, the only son of the Baron Lamberg of Hungary. I doubt Victoria would have even been in England when Beatrice was widowed."

"Then who else might have been after William's wealth? This couldn't have been for nothing. There must have been someone else at the bottom of all this?" Greg felt in his bones that this line of questioning made sense. There had to be more to the exile of the young widow than simple snobbery.

"There was," Guy's figure paused on a name. He stopped and looked up, his gaze turning towards Freddy. "There was another sister, a younger sister," he said slowly, almost unwillingly.

"And?" Freddy felt breathless. She'd learned more about her antecedents in the last few minutes than she had in her life.

"Frederica Violet Kerr," the duke read the name slowly. "Eighteen-ought-seven to eighteen eighty-nine," he added with some finality. "Otherwise known in the family as the Grande Dame of Piccadilly."

"My namesake," Freddy breathed. "Piccadilly?"

"The locality with supreme _bon ton_ ," Guy Innes-Ker sat back on his perch, nodding his comprehension. "One of the wealthiest London suburbs of the nineteenth-century," he added. "There was no locality in London commanding a nobler view than that enjoyed from the windows of the mansions in Piccadilly," he shrugged and stood, heading for a crystal decanter. "Anyone for a brandy?"

"Better not, thanks. Driving tonight," Greg sat, his eyes fixed on Freddy's stilled expression. If anyone might have wanted to get their hands on William Kerr's worldly good, then his younger sister was already sounding like a potential candidate. People who lived in expensive houses usually had expensive tastes and London had never been a cheap place to live.

Handing a glass across to Freddy, Guy nudged her until she took it from him and sipped the aromatic liquid unknowingly, her thoughts clearly somewhere in the distant past.

"It might be as simple as that, then," the duke slid onto the other half of Freddy's settee, facing Greg. "William's unexpected and sudden death left his widow and child unprotected and perhaps with no way of making her secret marriage public, would have been easy prey for someone like Great Aunt Frederica," he sighed loudly. "Most families with long lines have all sorts of skeletons in various cupboards," he said, sipping his brandy. "Ours, it seems, is no different," he shook his head. "Poor Beatrice Kerr."

"If Charles was born in eighteen-thirty-five, he'd have been twenty-one in eighteen-fifty-six," Freddy put her glass down on the table and sat, deep in thought.

Nodding his understanding, Greg chewed his bottom lip. "Was the Pimlico house built that year by any chance?" he asked mildly. "The year young Charles came of age? Remember the Roxburghe crest we saw carved into the old staircase?"

"I know it was built in the mid-eighteen-fifties, though I'd have to check the deeds and records for the exact date," Freddy met his eyes. "I also know the house and grounds were partly based on designs of this castle ... the walled garden, for instance. That might explain the crest, though I thought it was in the house because someone from the estate had been involved with building the Pimlico house itself," she said. "It never occurred to me that it might be because the house had been built intentionally for the legitimate Apley heir."

"Maybe the old biddy ended up developing something of a conscience after all," Greg stole a small sip from her brandy glass. "She would have been getting on for fifty at that time; maybe she was starting to feel her mortality."

"We'll have to investigate the deeds to the house more closely to be sure," Freddy still sounded as though she was far away.

"All this being slightly beside the point, however," Guy headed back to the decanter, looking at Freddy's husband with lifted eyebrows. Shaking his head, Greg smiled. "No more for me tonight," he said. "I'm probably right on the limit as it is."

"In that case, I'll ring for something more enlivening," Guy was as good as his word and shortly thereafter, they each held a tiny cup of aromatic Turkish coffee. "So my dear," he came and sat beside Greg this time, the better to watch Freddy's face. "Now that all this seems to be coming out into the light of day, what is it you intend to _do_ about all this?"

Sitting up straighter, Freddy looked broodingly at both men. "I'm honestly not all that bothered about the title," she said, finally. "It's not as if I've grown up knowing it would be there for me at some point; it's nothing I'm going to actively do without or miss."

"There's a lot more to the title than the title itself, you know," Guy sounded knowledgeable. "There's the lands and estates that were tied to it, for starters."

"Lands and estates that the Crown snapped up rather swiftly, I suspect," she smiled for the first time. "Probably all part of someone else's estate by now."

"But if your right to the title can be proven," Guy leaned forward. "Such lands can be returned. It's only a matter of words on a deed," he added, turning to Greg. "There could be a significant financial interest in the estate as well."

"Financial?" Greg's brow furrowed. "I don't think I follow."

"Rents from the land itself," Guy smiled faintly. "Income generated by those using the land," he continued. "Part of all this money belongs to the rightful and recognised owner, the title-holder, in fact," he laughed. "One of the reasons we're called the 'landed gentry', old man."

"Not wanting to sound like I'm at all interested," it was Freddy's turn to frown. "What kind of money might we be looking at?"

The duke shrugged. "In the thousands, probably," his tone didn't change in the slightest. "Possibly even into the hundreds of thousands. Annually, of course."

Inhaling slowly through her nose, Freddy stared directly at Greg. Though she said nothing, it would have been obvious to anyone that many different thoughts were flashing through her head. "That kind of money would pay for a great deal of research ..." Her words were so soft, they were almost whispered.

Greg felt as if he'd been stunned by something heavy and solid. He'd been shocked enough the night before when Freddy had explained how the reality of having a title might affect them and ... children. But the notion that there might be any real wealth attached to any of this ... he swallowed dryly.

They didn't need any money, not really. The Pimlico house was virtually finished, all but the garden and some bits and pieces. Gwennie had come to the party, demanding to be allowed to pay for the garden reconstruction in return for being given free rein over the ground floor of the house. And once they'd finally sold off the top floor apartment, financially, they'd be laughing. On top of that, his recent promotion had brought his income up to a pretty reasonable level for London and if Freddy was able to lay her hands on some research funding as she'd planned ... No, there wouldn't be any real money worries for them and for that he was incredibly thankful. But if Freddy could legitimately acquire thousands of pounds each year from properties and land that was rightfully hers by law ...

"It's entirely up to you, love," he smiled as her eyes continued to search his face for his thoughts. "We don't need more money to live on and, once we've sold the top flat, we won't have any debts or future money worries either," he added. "But if you want to make a claim for the title, and if it's all legal and lawful, then you know I'll be right there for you, whatever you want to do," he shrugged, his words tailing into silence.

"Well, before anyone does anything, I think the first order of business when the pair of you return to London, is to speak with my legal people at Hunters," Guy Innes-Ker lit another of his fragrant cigarettes, puffing the smoke high into the air. "This kind of action is not something one does lightly or without a full and clear understanding of the potential consequences," he paused. "And let's not forget, you're supposed to be up here on your honeymoon," he smiled down at them. "You've only been here five minutes."

###

It wasn't until they were back in the car, on the way home to their little cottage that Freddy raised the topic again. "Will you come with me when I go to speak to these legal people?" she asked quietly. "Until I know exactly what the situation is, until everything is laid out in front of us, I'd feel much better knowing you're right there."

"Course I'll come with you, sweetheart," Greg took a hand off the wheel and rested it on her thigh. "You know you don't even need to ask," he smiled to himself in the dim evening light as he drove them back towards Kelso town centre. They'd been asked back for another dinner before they returned to London and he already felt surprisingly at home with Guy and Louise. It was hard to believe they were proper toffs.

As if reading him mind, Freddy covered his hand with her own. "I thought you handled tonight amazingly well," she said. "I already knew you were good with people," she added, admiringly. "But I wondered how you might feel with everyone at dinner tonight," she patted the back of his hand. "You acted as if you'd spent your entire life among British nobility."

"Yeah well," Greg grinned into the darkness. "Our host and hostess are nice people," he said. "Especially Louise," he laughed quietly, shaking his head. "That story she told about judging the pig competition at the local fair ..."

"And not just the duke and the duchess, of course." Freddy patted his hand again in approval, though Greg wasn't quite sure what she meant.

"Of course, what?" he asked, taking the turning back out through Kelso, heading off to the junction for their cottage.

"I meant with the Bowen-Ryders and Julia and Hugo Ridley," she turned her head to better see his expression. "And even with Fiona and Charles," she paused, smiling again. "You handled them all with remarkable aplomb and savoir faire."

"Not sure I understand you, doll," Greg narrowed his eyes against the glare of a street light as he searched out and found the small lane he needed to take.

"The Marquess and Marchioness of Strathlome and the Viscount and Viscountess of Morpeth," it was Freddy's turn to laugh softly. "Not to mention Lord Charles Innes-Ker and the Honourable Fiona Wallace."

Driving silently until they reached the cottages, he pulled their little car into the small front courtyard of their rented cottage. Greg flicked off the lights and switched off the engine, though his hands still rested on the steering wheel. His gaze focused blankly out through the front windscreen.

"Well, bugger me," he murmured finally. "It simply never crossed my mind that anyone else there ... apart from Guy and Louise, I mean, that anyone else might be ..." With a short intake of breath, he turned to Freddy in the dark of the unlit car, leaning forward until his lips met hers. "I knew you'd be a bad influence on me," he murmured. "I'll be drinking tea with bits of lemon in it next."

"I can think of a number of far more interesting things for you to be doing than drinking tea." Moving into his embrace, Freddy kissed him back with interest, crooning softly in her throat. "I even dressed for the occasion," she smiled against his mouth.

Feeling the now-familiar surge of heat burn through him at Freddy's touch, Greg ran his fingers through her hair, turning her face until his could kiss his wife properly, controlling his surging passion until he began to need a lot more space than the cramped confines of a rented VW.

"We're supposed to be on our honeymoon," he stage-whispered. "I think we should remember that."

"I told you I'd dressed for the occasion," Freddy clicked open the car door and slid out. "Which occasion did you think I meant?"

Suddenly alone in the car, Greg blinked slowly before smiling. Making short work of locking the vehicle up tight, he strode in through the open door of the cottage, closing and bolting it behind him.

There was a single shoe lying on the floor at the foot of the stairs and he smiled again, turning his face upwards to the faint glow of their bedroom light. A second shoe perched half way up the short staircase while her new blue dress dangled over the handle of the door which stood invitingly open. His grin widening, Greg took the stairs two at a time, collecting footwear as he went. Reaching the bedroom, he stepped inside expecting ... slamming to a stunned halt as he found his wife draped across the bed wearing little more than a knowing smile and something that... something tight in pale blue that ... the tiniest little ... and it did something to her breasts that ... and it was all laced down the front and ... _holy mother of god_ ... Remembering that they were on their honeymoon, Greg did the only possible thing and hastened to unwrap his brand new wedding present.

###

As with the previous two mornings, the day was bright and sunny with the sweet sound of birdsong. Ignoring the entire _countrysideness_ of the whole thing, Greg pulled a pillow over his head and made a serious effort to return to a place of peaceful and relaxing sleep.

The beguiling perfume of freshly-brewed coffee crept into his awareness and he sighed, realising now that there was nothing for it but to stagger into some form of wakefulness. Rolling onto his back, he stretched various limbs and smiled a big smile. He felt entirely too relaxed and at peace with the world. His grin, already at maximum wattage, threatened to dislocate his jaw. Heaving himself out of the warm and inviting bed, he shrugged into a cotton robe and headed downstairs. There was a good measure of hot coffee still left in the cafetière, which he poured for himself, while looking for Freddy. A flicker of movement beyond the kitchen window sent him into the small conservatory and out into the garden. The air around here was so sweet and fresh, he felt another grin arrive.

Turning at the sound of his footsteps, Freddy smiled brilliantly back, Clad in little more than a thin cotton nighty, she stood in the early sunshine and sipped from her mug.

"It was a real brainwave to come up here for a few days," Greg draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her unresisting form close to his side. "It's bloody lovely."

"I knew you'd like it," she said, hugging herself even closer. "It's going to be a fabulous day, would you like to go for a drive around the area so I can show you a few things?"

"If that's what you'd like to do, darlin', then that's what we shall do." Greg inhaled the scents of the countryside. "I need to have a quick check that nobody's sent me any urgent texts since we left London," he looked down at the top of her head. "But I promise not to get myself into any work. I really _really_ promise."

"You'd better not," Freddy growled as she pinched his side just hard enough to be felt. "I'll have another stab at something nice for breakfast," she smiled up at him. "Though it's your turn tomorrow."

Despite having eaten his own weight in food only the previous evening, Greg discovered that, once again, he was starving. It had to be something to do with all the fresh air, he decided. Heading back upstairs to the bedroom, he fished around in his jacket pocket for his phone. Scrolling through the mercifully short list of messages, he noted there were a couple from work, though the first line of each one told him not to read any further until he was on the way back to London. He read them anyway. One was about an urgent staffing issue that could certainly wait until he was back at the Yard. The other was from Donovan, advising that one of the new constables had mucked up the chain of evidence and an entire set of fingerprints was now deemed inadmissible in court. Promising himself a little chat with the young officer, Greg hit 'Call'. Sally answered after two rings.

"Sod off back to your honeymoon!" she sounded mildly irate. "I told you in my message that you weren't supposed to do anything until you were back in London!" His lips twitched as Greg realise she was genuinely cross.

"Sorry Sal," he grinned down the phone. "Promise I won't do any more work before I get back, but I was wondering if you'd do me a bit of a personal favour sometime during the week?"

"Yeah?" Donovan sounded fractionally suspicious. "If it's anything to do with you working, then you know what you can do with your favour, don't you?"

"There's a senior partner at Stevens & Co, you know, the big legal bunch. I need you to have a look at a bloke called Douglas Henshaw," he said. "Would you mind?"

"On the take, is he?" Like Greg, Sally knew a great many legal people, not all of them for the right reasons.

"I'm not sure what he is, but I'd like to find out as much as I can and I can't do bugger all while I'm up here, which is a problem for me, I have to admit."

"You swear this has got nothing to do with anything currently on your desk?" Sally's tone was more than a little suspicious.

"I honestly swear, Sally," Greg laughed. "I simply want to find out more about this guy before I return to London and may have to go and see him for ... for family reasons," he added, for want of anything better.

"Stevens & Co.?" the tone in her voice changed. "It this anything to do with that guy ..?"

"It might, Sal, it _might_ ," Greg tried to keep his voice light.

"Alright then. I'll see what I can do when I've got five minutes spare, yeah?"

"Fantastic, ta," Greg smiled. "It's lovely up here," he added. "I've got some wild stories for you when we get back."

Donovan's laugh was the last thing he heard as she ended his call.

###

It was a beautiful day for a drive, though Greg was surprised when, after only a few minutes of driving, Freddy asked him to pull the car over at the top of a nearby hill. Even though it wasn't all that high, the vantage point provided a clear view across the river valley and over the town itself.

"This is a lovely view," he nodded serenely as Freddy came to stand at his side, holding his hand.

"I wanted you to see Kelso from up here for a particular reason," she said, staring down over the small Scottish township.

Happy to do whatever she wanted, Greg smiled again, his expression fond. "What particular reason, sweetheart?"

Looking at him with wide eyes and a serious expression, Freddy waved her hand across the vista before them. "Because Kelso is part of the Apley estate."


	13. Chapter 13

It wasn't until they stopped for an early lunch at a little café by the river, that Greg even attempted to get his head around some of the things Freddy had shown him that morning. Technically, he had no problem understanding the nature or observance of inheritance; the things parents left their children, for example, was not an alien concept. Jewellery and money, yes, things of value passed down from one generation to the next like rare books and artwork, things of historical or sentimental value, _yes_. Even property and land ... the idea of bequeathing someone your house and maybe a bit of garden was only a matter of scale, really. However, the idea that anyone could be left an entire _town_ completely did his nut in.

"So tell me then," he said slowly. "Now that I'm sitting down and unlikely to have a heart attack, exactly what was in the Apley estate? And how come Kelso itself is part of the deal?" he looked puzzled as he leaned across the table between them. "Isn't that cutting things a little too close to home for the Roxburghes?"

With a matter-of-fact expression on her face, Freddy sighed. "I don't have all the details," she said. "I only knew about Kelso because it was the largest income-generator in the inheritance. John Ker, the third Duke of Roxburghe and father of Robert, the first Earl of Apley, clearly wanted to give his eldest child something that would set him up financially and allow the boy to mingle with his peers at every level," she shrugged. "It seems that establishing Kelso as part of the Apley estate did exactly that."

Greg frowned as he thought. "But didn't you tell me last night that one of Guy's titles is Earl of Kelso? How can two different people claim to have rights over the same town?"

"The Earl of Kelso was a title the third duke allowed to go into voluntary abeyance and it wasn't until the Apley line was thought to have died out that it was reinstated by the Roxburghes," Freddy lifted her eyebrows. "Guy's family clearly didn't want to let that part of the estate revert to the crown."

"And that's another thing," Greg leaned forward even more, resting both his arms on the tabletop. "How does anyone make money from a _town?_ " he asked. "Is it charged rent or something?"

"There wouldn't be as much money to be had now as once there was," Freddy tilted her head to one side, thinking. "Back in the day, the ducal family would have owned the rights to just about everything in the area, not just the river," she paused. "The fields and farms would have been leased to tenant farmers, but everyone who used the mill would have to pay for the privilege, as well as having to pay for using any lumber from the woods, or digging peat or mining," raising her eyebrows still further she smiled. "People would even have to pay for the land they needed to build a house on," she said. "Either that, or rent one of the houses the duke built for his estate workers or the farmers on his land."

"Even today?" Greg looked curious.

"No, not as much," Freddy shook her head. "These days, big castles and estates like Floors are paid for by investments and business profits, as well as receiving annual funding from the National Trust if they meet certain criteria," she said. "One of America's wealthiest heiresses came over here and married Guy's grandfather, the eighth duke in nineteen-o-three," squinting at the effort of recall, Freddy nibbled her lip. "Mary Goelet," she said finally. "Brought millions into the family, almost all of which was carefully invested and used to improve the castle," she laughed. "Compound interest may be boring but it certainly pays for a lot of stuff."

"So what did the first Earl of Apley do for a crust, then?" Greg found he was becoming interested in history for its own sake. "If his daddy set him up with the rent from an entire town, he probably wouldn't have to do much to get by, would he?"

"Invested in the Cornish mining industry, I believe," Freddy sipped her tea. "Copper or tin, I can't recall which," she said. "Though I don't think the mines lasted very long, at least I don't remember my father ever telling me about any great fortunes being made from mining, but the whole Apley inheritance was something of a sensitive subject in our house for a long time," she smiled ruefully. "Given our somewhat straitened circumstances, nobody wanted to talk about all the things that might have been, you see."

Greg nodded. He could see much more clearly now how Freddy's family came to be what they were today. And how much difference it could make to everyone if the Apley title was reclaimed. "When we get back to London, I think you and I should go and have a chat with Guy's legal people," he said softly. "Whatever the eventual outcome might be, I think you owe it to the rest of your family to at least get the full picture before you make your mind up on what you want to do in the long run," he smiled, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "And whatever you do will be fine with me," he added. "Although, if you do decide to have a go at the title, I tell you now that I will never get tarted up for any ridiculous House of Lords gig, so never ask me, okay?" His grin was wide and genuine.

"I promise, darling." Freddy's laughing hazel eyes met his and Greg knew he was the luckiest man in Britain.

###

The rest of the honeymoon flew by. There were two further days of fishing, though on the last one, Greg had more or less spent the afternoon dozing on the bright tartan rug while Freddy did battle with a brace of trout that were eventually handed to him to barbecue. They had also returned to Floors on separate days for an _al fresco_ garden lunch and another dinner, though these were much more intimate affairs with only themselves and the duke and duchess present. Freddy held Greg's hand as she walked him around the great walled garden upon which the smaller Pimlico one had been modelled. When they came to the fruiting peach trees, Greg inhaled the overpoweringly sweet scent and felt suddenly and desperately homesick for London and their Pimlico house. They called in at the Fairbairn's for afternoon tea and to return the fishing gear they'd borrowed, though it was more for politeness's sake than a genuine desire to make friends. Greg recalled their first meeting and knew life was too short to have to deal with that kind of nonsense. The very last day in Scotland they spent driving around Roslin, where ancient monuments abounded and film crews lurked behind every hedge. There were a great number of early shrines and churches around the area, though many of them were mere burned out stone shells, a silent testament to the violent religious history of the British Isles. It was with a mixed sense of sadness and pleasure for Greg when he was finally able to hand the VW's keys back to the rental company.

Catching a mid-morning train from Berwick, he and Freddy spent the next few hours smiling at each other as small memories resurfaced, moments in the last couple of weeks when they'd moved closer together as a couple. Greg had known from the beginning that this would be his last time at any altar, but that had been a pragmatic decision. Now he knew it because no other woman would ever be able to hold his heart so deeply as did Freddy. He smiled down at the magazine lying unread in his lap as he thought about the woman who had already changed his life so very much.

Grabbing a taxi from Kings Cross directly back to the Pimlico house was a bit on the expensive side but Greg simply couldn't be fagged to lug heavy suitcases and their other bits and pieces down into the tube. Damn the cost. The newlyweds arrived home in the early afternoon on a warm summer's day. Gwendoline already knew to expect them as Freddy had phoned the evening before but meeting his new mother-in-law felt almost as if it was the first time all over again.

" _Darlings!_ " Gwendoline, spry despite her advanced years, stepped out of the main entrance on the ground floor, arms spread wide. "You both look wonderful!"

Greg had to admit that Freddy did indeed look stunning; the sun had bronzed her skin to a fine glaze and long-lost freckles had resurfaced across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. She also seemed to have a new air of ... contentment? He didn't want to read too much into it, but while his new bride had usually managed to find the good in things, Freddy seemed to be in a permanently good mood these days. Not that he minded in the least. He had no idea his own grin was almost wide enough to split his face, and the Scottish sun had worked its own magic on him as well. The pair of them looked and sounded idyllically happy. As it was getting towards the end of the week and he wasn't due back in his office until the following Monday, Greg thought he'd give Sally a head's up to let her know they were back in case anything urgent had made itself known.

Gwendoline ushered them both into the downstairs kitchen where she put the kettle on for afternoon tea. Demanding to be told everything about their trip, had the cottage been comfortable, was Kelso still as pretty as it always had been, how were Guy and Louise ... silently waving his phone at Freddy, Greg popped up the back stairs to their own apartment as he dialled Donovan's number.

It beeped a busy signal back at him and he shrugged. He'd give it ten minutes and try again. In the meantime, he could hear his new mother-in-law ... he smiled at the very thought of having a mother-in-law again ... calling him to come and have his tea. Trooping down the stairs, he saw the two main women in his life almost as if he was seeing them for the first time. The same strange feeling of warmth and comfort that had sat in his chest since the wedding seemed to glow into life. Against all likelihood, he was now a part of the Kerr family, as much as they were part of his. He had no clear idea of what was going to happen in the second half of his life, but he realised he was looking forward to it, whatever it was.

"Come and sit down and let me look at you, my darling boy," Gwendoline slid a full cup of tea and a plate of what looked suspiciously like home-made scones across the table towards him. "I must say, Scotland seems to have agreed with the both of you tremendously. I take it the honeymoon went well?" Though her tone was mild, the curve of her mouth was unmistakable.

"Freddy taught me how to catch monster salmon," Greg nodded slowly as her tried one of the scones. "The weather was pretty nice too, and we had some very pleasant drives around the place, didn't we, love?" His eyebrows raised, he chewed, looking for Freddy's confirmation. "Met a duke and a duchess and had dinner in a big castle," he sipped his tea. "You know, the usual things."

"Ghastly child," Gwendoline narrowed menacing eyes at him. "You know full well that's not what I meant."

"Maybe not," Greg waved his teacup at her, laughing. "But it's all you're getting from me."

"It was lovely, Mummy," Freddy poked Greg in the shoulder. "Everyone at Floors sends their love. Greg is now an expert fly-fisher and he and Guy are fast friends," she smiled back at her husband. "It was a lovely holiday for the both of us."

Realising that was probably all she'd be told with Greg in the room, Gwendoline assumed a satisfied expression. "All your things are upstairs, waiting for you," she looked vaguely smug. "I also have some news that might be of interest."

"Old man Lewis popped the question, has he?" Greg managed to keep a straight face as he helped himself to a second scone. "Promised to take you away from all this, has he? Those Welshmen," he shook his head sadly. "Coming down here, stealing our women."

"I've sold the Harrow house to a property developer." Gwendoline poured herself another cup of tea.

"And?" Freddy looked curious. " _And?_ " Come _on_ , Mother, don't keep us in suspense."

"I was actually offered more by a different bidder," the old woman looked momentarily subdued. "But I didn't take to their building plans. However the one I did accept has submitted a planning permission application to build only two properties on the same piece of land and they'll look quite lovely."

Grinning down into his tea, Greg knew she was dying to tell them. "Go on then," he murmured. "What kind of deal did you manage to screw out of them, poor beggars, whoever they are."

"One-point-nine-million," Gwendoline studied the gilded pattern on her teacup. "I've already signed the deal," she added quietly. "And as it was to a developer, he's paying cash, so there's no wait for the money at all. It should be in my account before the end of the week."

Freddy sat, stunned and silent. "To think that drafty, ratty, uncomfortable old house could possibly go for so much ..." she stopped, shocked.

"It's the land, darling, not the old house. The house is coming down to make way for progress," her mother sighed, a faintly poignant tone in her words.

"Better watch out for your boyfriend then," Greg teased. "Now that you're a rich widow, he's going to be very keen. Perhaps I should have a word with him, you know, man to man, like."

"Oh, hush, Gregory," Gwendoline waved him quiet, but smiled anyway.

"Hang on, before you tell us everything in excruciating detail, I just want to ring the office to make sure there's nothing urgent waiting for me. I won't be a tick and don't you dare start before I get back." Waving a finger of warning, Greg strode towards the double-glass doors leading out into the garden at the side of the house, slipping into the warm silence. Quickly, his fingers sent Donovan another call.

The engaged beeping sounded loud in his ear and he frowned. This was unusual. Maybe there was a fault on the line? Mildly frustrated, Greg scrolled through the names on his phone until he came to one of the detective constables he knew sat close to Sally's desk.

The beeps came through again, loud and clear. _Another_ engaged phone. What the hell was going on? It was rare that the phones were tied up like this unless there'd been ... he paused, his heart thudding once in his chest. If everyone was busy like this, it meant that something big was going down. In seconds, he'd put through a call to the emergency line they kept free just for such a reason. His call was answered in seconds. Greg asked to be handed over to Donovan.

"Guv?" Sally's voice sounded strangely brittle. From experience, Greg knew this meant she was probably very angry. He wondered what could have happened to make someone as grounded as Sally Donovan feel that way. Whatever it was must be important.

"What's going on?" he asked carefully. "Tell me."

"Multiple escaped prisoners, Guv," she sounded a little breathless. "Eleven men, all from Ford Prison."

"Ford's an open prison and they're a slack bunch at best. Aren't they losing prisoners all the time? Didn't a couple of them disappear for several weeks before coming back?" Greg relaxed. If this was all it was ...

"Three of the men were recent transfers from Brixton in the last few days, all in for crimes of violence," Donovan sounded tense. "Two for murder and one for murder and aggravated assault," she added.

"Who's in charge?"

"Dimmock. But that's not the worst of it, Guv. The third man, the one down for soliciting a murder was also down for assault with intent and possession and supplying ..."

"Yeah?" the hairs at the back of Greg's neck prickled. _No_ ... _impossible_ ...

"Alex bloody Harper," Sally's voice grew hard again, as if she wished to visit some violence of her own upon the hapless prison warden who permitted such a shambles to occur.

"Alex Harper is back on the street?" Greg felt a pressure begin to grip his chest as if he were being squeezed by a giant hand. Apart from the fact that several violent criminals had somehow managed to buck the British prison system and were now on the loose, at least one of them was probably having some very serious thoughts about revenge. "How long have they all been gone? More importantly, how did someone sent down only six months ago for soliciting a murder, aggravated assault and dealing get himself into Ford in the first place? It's a _half-way_ joint for Christ's sake."

"It was only reported about an hour ago, but they must have been gone since last night sometime. We've got no idea how Harper managed to wangle his way into an open prison given he was on a fifteen year-stretch. There are all sorts of people down there right now, checking on guard rosters and sign-in sheets," she paused. "You know at Ford prisoners can wear their own clothes?" she asked unbelievingly. "And some of them even have jobs outside the prison grounds?"

"I haven't seen anything yet in the press," Greg chased his memory for any news boards he might have seen today on their travels. There certainly hadn't been any gossip he'd heard on the train down from Berwick, and the cab driver, one of a tribe of huge gossip-mongers, had said nothing at all about the latest drama to hit the streets. "Have the TV stations got hold of it yet?"

"I know there's all sorts of statements being prepared," Sally sounded tired. "You know, photos of the missing men, warnings to the public not to open their doors to strangers after dark, the usual."

"Is there a press conference scheduled?" It would be the obvious next step.

"Just after five-thirty tonight. The Chief Commissioner's heading it."

Closing his eyes, Greg knew he'd have to tell Freddy. This wasn't the kind of thing he could possibly keep from her. But she seemed so happy now, and he'd already made her miserable only days ago ... He shook his head at his cowardice. He'd have to tell her.

"How's Dimmock coping?" he asked. Unwilling to undermine the credibility or authority of a fellow officer, nevertheless, Greg knew that this kind of problem needed a gentle touch with people and Paul Dimmock was not always the most comfortable of men to be around when he had the bit between his teeth. Biting his lip, Greg wondered if he should cut short the last few days of his leave and head back into the Yard.

"Don't you dare," Sally's voice sounded crosser than before. "Don't you even think about coming in, not for a second. I can hear your thoughts from here and you're not to come back early!"

"This is big, Sal," Greg was at his most pragmatic "The brass are going to want to know that everyone's on it."

"Not when you're on your bloody _honeymoon_ ," Donovan's voice rose with indignation. "You can't just up and leave Freddy like that. It's not right."

Hearing his sergeant refer to his wife by her first name, Greg smiled momentarily. At least his fear that Freddy wouldn't get on with his colleagues had proven unfounded. He inhaled slowly as he made up his mind. "Get me a copy of all the information we've got so far on this. I'll be there within the hour," he informed her. "I can always take a couple of days off when all this is done and put to bed."

"You're a right bastard at times, you know that?" Donovan sounded angry again, though not, Greg suspected, for the same reason as before.

"I'll be there soon, Sally." Greg ended the call and shoved the phone back in his jacket pocket. Re-entering the kitchen, he walked slowly towards the table, catching his wife's eye as he did. As she watched him approach, Freddy sat up slowly, her expression becoming neutral and vague.

"There's a problem and you have to go into your office," she said, before he'd had an opportunity to say anything at all.

"Prison break," Greg nodded. "Eleven men. I have to go, I'm horribly, _horribly_ sorry. We can have an extra couple of days to ourselves once this thing is done," he promised her, trying to work out a way to tell her that Alex Harper was one of the escapees.

"It's your job," Freddy smiled circumspectly, obviously doing her best not to show any disappointment. For a second, Greg remembered so many similar moments in his first marriage, where he'd made the same promises to Cathy. At that second he realised something very important about himself. He would always do what he needed to do as opposed to what he wanted to do. He would always put his job, the harsh, gritty reality of police work over his personal needs and desires. It was who he was. No matter how he might want it, he wasn't going to change. He watched Freddy's face compose itself into a calm acceptance and he couldn't bear it. _Not again._ He wasn't going to go down that road again.

"I'm horribly sorry that I need to go right now," he said with an emerging smile. "But I'll make sure that I take some time off next week to make up for it," he grinned, digging out his wallet and handing Freddy his credit card. "I'd very much like you to do some of that research you're so good at and see if you can find us a long weekend getaway somewhere exotic for a few days starting Thursday of next week," he swung her into his arms, kissing her soundly on the mouth before walking towards the stairs leading up to their apartment. "I've got to do this now, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to enjoy my honeymoon to the full," he laughed, a wave of pleasure rippling through him at the suddenly delighted look on Freddy's face. "I love you, but I have to go be a copper for a bit first," he grinned again, running up the stairs to change into something more business-like.

It was only when he was in the BMW driving up Victoria Embankment that he realised he hadn't said anything about Alex Harper.

###

Douglas Henshaw finished signing the pile of documents and briefs sitting tidily on the corner of his large and extravagant desk, readying his work for the additional input of lesser mortals. One of the benefits of being a senior partner in a well-known legal firm meant that virtually all of the grunt work was done by others, allowing him time to compose lofty legal opinions and to be the Chamber's public face for high-profile litigations.

His work on the Apley case had reached a point now where he needed to speak with the putative heiress and in this instance, it was not something he could afford to leave to anyone else. Hunters had been politely non-committal, taking the copies of documents from him with every appearance of careful consideration, though they had stopped short of actually providing him with any of the details he'd requested. No, before he could start actively assembling the various petitions, he now needed the young woman's committed involvement. There was nothing else for him to do but to arrange a meeting, preferably here, at his office, where the heavy oak panelling and suitably aged leather Chesterfields provided a perfect background for discussions of great weight and import. Noting that the lady had not yet responded to the earlier letter that had been sent out regarding the disposal of her late father's papers, now no longer in Alex Harper's care, Henshaw realised he had the perfect _entrée_ into Frederica Kerr's presence. All that was required was the making of a simply appointment, where the lady herself might visit the Chambers to take possession of the documents. At the same time, it would be child's play for an experienced and learnèd individual such as himself, to persuade the young woman to his enterprise.

 _He would write a personalised letter_ , he thought. Something appropriately grand and legalistic; something with the necessary _gravitas_ one would expect in the circumstances. After all, he was about to raise the lady from a commoner to one of the gentry. Satisfied that he'd collated all the essential documents, Henshaw slid the thick wedge of papers into an expensive calf-leather briefcase. Opening a shallow drawer, he pulled out several sheets of heavy linen stock paper and a matching envelope, both watermarked with the Lincoln's Inn coat of arms, a lion standing in a field of millrinds. _Sovereignty, strength and justice_. The barrister smiled ironically. What the public never knew couldn't hurt them.

Of course, he wasn't about to acknowledge the lady's recent marriage, at least, not until he had a lot more information about it. The man might turn out to be a complete oik and utterly intolerable, though there were all manner of ways to end a marriage, even one as nascent as this one. _Dear Ms Kerr_ , taking up a heavy-nibbed fountain pen, he began, opening the letter with the standard salutations and well-wishing. Assuring her of his deepest respect, Henshaw composed a letter designed to bring her to him here, at the centre of all his legal pomp and influence. Once she had been properly fêted and charmed, he would lay out his wondrous news before her, weaving her future and his together into a marvellous romantic scenario of rekindled history, of wealth and nobility and of reclaimed rights and family honour. With any luck, he'd have the woman weeping into her sherry before he was half done. Douglas Henshaw had always prided himself on his shrewd writing skills and he smiled happily as he reached the bottom of the page. Finishing the missive with a flourished signature, he sealed it within the envelope and scribed the address, once again quietly pleased at the woman's location. A Westminster dwelling offered significant potential, one way or another.

Collecting his briefcase, Henshaw exited his office, well pleased at the day's work. Leaving the sealed envelope with the junior administration clerk, he gave strict directions that it was to be in the first class mail by four o'clock that day. The suitably panicked junior almost bolted from his desk.

Smiling again, Henshaw departed the offices of Stevens & Co., summoning a taxi with a wave of his elegantly grey-gloved hand, directing the driver to Belgravia. After such a productive and promising day, Henshaw felt entirely within his rights to celebrate a little in the privacy of his home.

###

The crystal balloon glass felt comfortingly heavy in his fleshy hand, as did the fragrant smoking cigar in the other. Already on his second cognac, Henshaw wondered if he should take his celebration out into the night-lights of London at some private casino perhaps, or should he moderate his alcohol intake and consider later gratification at the hands of an exclusive escort at his preferred gentleman's club? There were also several new videos to be downloaded from a very discreet supplier in Frankfurt, each one promising an hour of titillating sexual fantasy for the discerning viewer. _Choices, choices_. Deciding that tonight, he'd remain _à_ _la maison_ , he strolled into his office, heading for his desk. It had taken a number of cautious inquiries, but he had finally found a supplier to replace Harper and the little silver snuffbox was full to the brim. As the later afternoon edged its way into the first glimmerings of evening, he settled at the desk with the glass of fine brandy close at hand. Picking up the tiny silver spoon, Henshaw was about to enjoy his first hit of cocaine for the evening when the French windows behind him opened quietly. Not yet so indulged in his customary vices as to have lost all sense of events, Douglas Henshaw knew he was in a difficult situation. Deciding to brazen it out, he sat back slowly, allowing his shoulders to rest against his chair.

"If you're going to rob me," he said. "You may as well come in and get it over with. I'm unlikely to be able to stop anyone who can bypass my security system, am I?" Lifting his cigar, he puffed the ashy end to a burning red. "Though I do hope that you're wearing some sort of headgear," he added. "The number of security cameras in this area is quite ridiculous."

The intruder's footfalls were light, almost inaudible, as he walked slowly around the end of the large desk, maintaining distance between himself and the seated Henshaw. Dressed in shabby, inconsequential clothes, the man held no weapon, though his right hand was clenched into a fist. He wore no gloves either, a fact that Henshaw noted with some professional disapproval. He imagined that all burglars these days would be fully cognisant of the need to avoid leaving fingerprints and DNA. He looked up at the man's face ... the cigar dropped unheeded from his suddenly senseless fingers.

" _Alex?_ "


	14. Chapter 14

Greg heard the din of loud voices even before the lift doors opened on the fourth floor. To say the place was a zoo would be excessive, but there was an unusual amount of activity, with groups of people on multiple phones all managing to talk over each other. There were even more phones ringing unanswered but the few individuals not actually on a phone seemed to be dashing around between small enclaves of very serious-faced senior officers and detectives, hunched together around computer screens. There was also a slightly manic tension in the air that set people's faces into frowns and floated a greasy residue of anxiety in what was customarily the most professional of environments. The shit, it seemed, had very much hit the fan.

Taking a deep breath, Greg stepped out of the lift and walked swiftly and without pause around the semi-open space in the centre of the floor towards his office at the front of the building. His passage merited only a few brief glances. The view from his window was even more spectacular than normal, with brilliant sunlight glinting off a blue River Thames lined with leafy green trees along both the embankments, and the happy summer colours of bright t-shirts and light summery outfits. Greg didn't even notice; his eyes snapping immediately to a manila folder sitting squarely in the middle of his otherwise cleared desk. Unbuttoning his light suit jacket, he sat and pulled the heavy file closer, flipping the cover open and scanning through the top document even as there was a light knock on his semi-open door.

"Welcome back, Guv." Sally Donovan looked bone-weary even though it was barely late afternoon. She didn't come in, but sagged tiredly against the door frame. "There's another update meeting in about ten minutes in the main Sit. Room. I didn't tell anyone you were coming in just in case you changed your mind," she looked rueful and rubbed her nose. "It's been like this since the first report came in," Donovan glanced over her shoulder. "Not the best way to come back to work after a honeymoon," she added, giving his face a slightly longer examination. "You look well on it though," she smiled grudgingly. "Shout if you need anything."

Watching his sergeant hasten back to her own ringing telephone, Greg zipped through the rest of the information in the file, his experienced mind noting times, names, prisoner profiles, response activities ... He was about half way through when he came to the papers he really wanted to see. Three men, three sets of photographs. Three arrest sheets and three prison records. Two of the men were clearly career criminals, with a history of doing time stretching back to their teens, a fact attested to by the sheer range of mugshots, the latest showing a pair of hard, brutalised men; scarred both physically and no doubt, mentally. Not the kind of person you'd want to meet in a dark alley late at night. With everything from petty larceny to extortion with menace, the pair seemed to have blagged their way through half of London. Both had done time for aggravated theft. He'd seen a thousand similar cases, some of them ending in crimes of violence and murder. Neither of the men seemed remotely reformed or reformable. In the last two years, both had been sentenced to life in Belmarsh prison, a maximum security, Category A institution. Somehow, they had recently been transferred down to Brixton, a class C establishment; a prison reserved for those sentenced for much lesser crimes and serving no more than a few years, tops. How in hell's name _that_ particular cock-up had happened was only part of the problem to be fixed. There was still the matter of the third man.

He was different. The same photographs and arrest sheet, the same prison record though not, in this case, a particularly lengthy one. Even his mug shots were the same though equally, very different. He'd been clean-shaven for a start. His hair had been neatly combed. Greg's upper lip curled. There was even an old school tie. _Alexander Stowe Harper_. The bastard still wore the same supercilious expression Greg had seen, as he'd imagined at the time, for a final occasion when Harper had been sentenced for fifteen years. Banged up not more than six months earlier and now, _somehow_ , he'd been transferred, all nice and legally, out to a place like Ford Prison, where inmates took on part-time jobs and helped old ladies across the local roads. Another mystery to be solved, though again, not the main priority. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was time for the update meeting. Gathering up the file, he strode from his office towards the largest gathering space on the floor.

Both Superintendent Manju and her direct boss, Brice Samuels were already in the room, seated behind a long table at the front. Greg's unexpected appearance brought a varying degree of surprise to their expressions, but there was little time for pleasantries.

"Sir," he nodded at the Chief Superintendent. "Ma'am," he paid Leela Manju the same respect. "Looks like a sticky situation."

"Glad to have you back, Greg," Manju waved him down to a seat beside her. As a DCI, his role would be critical now, in terms of co-ordination and organisation. "We've managed to contain the worst of it, we _think_ ," she looked visibly concerned. "But we're very much aware that this is an extremely volatile and dangerous situation. We've scheduled updates every thirty minutes. I suggest you listen and learn. The Home Secretary has asked for a live press conference to go on-air just after the six o'clock news this evening. We need everyone to be on their toes."

Greg said nothing, but nodded briefly. Before he could be of any use, he needed to get up to speed. The situation was shaping up to be a really big operation, given the number and the type of individuals involved in the breakout. A press conference was standard procedure now for what might easily become a nationwide manhunt. From the number of unknown faces crowding into the room, it looked like the Serious Crimes division were already calling in all the spare hands and feet that could be mustered. The two key issues would be the safety of the public at large and the location and recapture of all prisoners, especially the three who had no business being at Ford in the first place. In less than a couple of minutes, the large space was jammed full of coppers.

"Thank you all for your efforts of the last few hours," Chief Superintendent Samuels stood, leaning both sets of knuckles on the table in front of him. "Be assured that the swift conclusion of this unprecedented situation is being pursued across all avenues and at the highest levels in the land," Samuels paused, his gaze taking in the mass of attentive faces. "In addition to accessing numbers of our brethren across the force as needed, I've also just been informed by the Commissioner, that the usual limits on overtime will be relaxed during this operation," a brief smile flitted across the man's face. "At least you'll see some personal benefit from all the extra hours you will be called upon to commit until the situation is resolved." Standing upright, the Chief Superintendent inhaled heavily. "I have every confidence in your ability to rectify the mistakes that have been created here by others," he pursed his lips. "And I can assure you that there will be a reckoning at the end of all this." Samuels smiled. "I leave you in the very capable hands of Superintendent Manju. Good luck and good hunting!"

Nobody clapped as the old man walked out through the centre of the gathered throng, because it wasn't that sort of an occasion. But every single officer in the room, Greg included, felt, for just a moment, a vague echo of Blighty spirit. _Good hunting_. Things were about to get creative.

All faces were now turned to Leela Manju who took her time standing where Samuels had stood only moments earlier. "Right, everyone," her quiet Indian voice and London accent combined to make people pay attention. "Updates please. By groups. Let's start with you, Duncan."

Standing, DI Brimacombe gave the assembly a concise review of what his team had achieved in the last thirty minutes and what was currently in hand. It sounded as if half of London's East End was being door-knocked, with both the immediate and extended families of the escapees being thoroughly questioned. There were also several teams of local community support officers checking out a wide range of possible boltholes. Brimacombe smiled as his summary came to a close.

"In their, ah, enthusiasm," he added dryly. "Some of my officers are uncovering a significant number of, ah, _illicit_ activities, Ma'am," he paused. "How do you want us to proceed in such situations?"

Greg smiled behind his hand, wondering just how many unofficial knocking-shops, smack-joints; fences and poker dens had already been rudely unearthed by the Flying Squad's _enthusiasm_.

Permitting a similar brief smile to temporarily lift the weariness from her features, Superintendent Manju twitched her eyebrows. "Take notes of who, what and where," she said. "Give them a warning that we'll be back and send them on their way," she said. "Unless, of course, any of these citizens are able to assist us with our enquiries?" she asked, tilting her head. "Tell your people to use their discretion," Manju nodded. "But remind them why we're doing this. We can go back for the small fry later."

"Understood, Ma'am," Duncan acknowledged her advice and sat,

Greg took a page of notes in the next eight minutes, as more than a dozen different people spoke, each one providing a succinct recap on a specific area of police activities. It very much looked as though all the key areas were being handled by a dedicated group of officers. Everything from family and friends, known associates, places of special interest, geographical homing points and habitual behaviours of all the escapees had been logged and were in the process of investigation.

"News just in!" A junior officer strode into the packed room. "Liverpool police have just apprehended two of the prisoners attempting to board the Irish ferry!" The news was greeted by a low generalised cheer which underlined the fact that nobody's effort was entirely in vain.

"Right, you lot," Manju waved her hand and checked her wristwatch. "Back to the phones. Next update at five-thirty. I want to see how many more we've been able to recapture in the interim; we need to be able to demonstrate our effectiveness at the press conference." With a press of bodies, the room emptied as fast as it had filled.

"Take a little while to get yourself in the loop, Greg, then come and share your thoughts with me," Leela Manju frowned. "And aren't you still on leave until next Monday, in any case?"

"I can take the rest of my leave once this is sorted," Greg gave her a tight smile. "I might be able to point a few people in the right directions on two of these men," he nodded at the folder he'd brought with him. "One of them I arrested twice and I might know a few of his habits that nobody else does, and the other ..." he paused, searching for the right words. "Well, let's say I had quite a bit to do with the man not so very long ago and that might be useful."

Narrowing her eyes, Superintendent Manju regarded her newest DCI with more than a little suspicion. She sniffed testily. "This wouldn't be anything of a personal vendetta going on here Greg, would it?" she asked in a distinctly probing tone. "I know exactly what's in your mind and I have to say I'm not completely happy with the idea of you going after him."

"Ma'am, we need everyone's eyes and ears on this," he met her gaze steadily. "It'll be by the book."

"Just make sure it is, DCI Lestrade," Manju regarded him moodily as she reminded him of his official position. "No matter the provocation, I'll have no vigilantism on my watch."

"Yes Ma'am," Greg gave her his most sincere look.

It was only when he was alone in the big room that his face to fell into a much darker expression. Whatever else might be going on around him, Alex fucking Harper was his and the man was going _down_.

###

" _Alex?_ " Douglas Henshaw repeated as his intruder took one of the heavy seats facing the big desk. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Throwing back the soft fabric of his hoodie before leaning forward and helping himself to one of the long, custom-made cigarettes Henshaw kept for guests, Alex Harper hefted a heavy crystal cigarette lighter and flicked it into life.

"In the flesh," he said after taking a long drag and inhaling the fragrant smoke with every evidence of pleasure. "God," he sighed, closing his eyes. "You've no idea how many times I've longed for a decent cigarette in the last six months." Fixing his gaze on the older man's startled face; Harper took another drag and relaxed back in the chair. "Hello, Douglas," he added mildly. "You've not changed one whit."

"I can't say the same for you, I'm afraid," Henshaw looked his unexpected guest up and down. The pupil who'd been convicted of murder and attempted murder last year presented a quite different picture now than he had back then. The man sitting before him was much thinner, almost to the point of incipient emaciation. Harper's cheekbones dominated his face now, with heavy dark smudges around and beneath his eyes and a pale, unhealthy-looking complexion. Not only had he lost a significant amount of weight, but the new lines around his eyes seemed heavy with some dreadful intensity. Despite the cigarette, his mouth was compressed into a thin, hard line. Clearly, the last few months had not been kind for his erstwhile young colleague. The clothes he wore were nondescript in the extreme, grey on grey and a far cry from the tailored suits he'd affected in Chambers.

"How did you manage to get in here without setting off the alarm?" Henshaw tried to focus on a detail in order to re-centre his thinking. "I'm fairly sure I haven't turned it off."

"You told me where you kept this, don't you remember?" Alex opened his closed fist within which lay an electronic key card. "Got me right inside without so much as a cheep," he added. "Though it's almost impossible to spot without knowing what it is, you should really do something about that false brick by your back gate, you know," he drew more smoke deep into his lungs. "There are a great many people out there who wouldn't be as polite as I am about breaking and entering," he blinked slowly. "One or two of my recent acquaintances would probably have had you chopped up into little pieces by now."

Henshaw had entirely forgotten the day he'd brought his enthusiastic apprentice back to his house in order to lay of a strategic plan for the young Harper's legal future. How long ago that had been. "And then I must ask, why?" Henshaw leaned forward on his substantial desk, his eyes never leaving Harper's pallid features. "You must realise that coming here is the greatest of follies? The police will undoubtedly be looking for you and I and all of us at Chambers, in fact, will no doubt be approached in case you have been in touch. How are you even out of prison?"

Smiling carefully as he helped himself to a second smoke which he lit from the glowing embers of the first, Harper flicked a shred of tobacco from his lip. "Unfinished business," he confessed with a vague smile. "One of two little things I need to resolve before I leave this sceptered isle for good. I'm going to need money, clothes, luggage and a car," he added, ignoring the growing expression of concern on Henshaw's face. He drew heavily again on the cigarette before stubbing the butt into the ashtray.

" _Alex_ ..." Douglas looked worried. "I cannot believe you are here like this with the knowledge and consent of the law. I have no idea how you managed to get here, but ..."

"Gaol-break, of a sort," Alex leaned suddenly forward and grinned in a particularly unpleasant fashion. "Nearly a dozen of us. Through a series of minor deceptions, I was able to access a selection of electronic records and arranged for myself and a choice group of my recent colleagues to be transferred down to Ford Prison which has a much more enlightened view of prisoner rehabilitation that Brixton," he reached for Henshaw's unfinished brandy and knocked it back with relish. "I used every oily trick you taught me to get several of my ... associates into Ford and in turn, they are going to keep the police busy until I've done what I need to do and leave the country for somewhere a little more welcoming." Taking another expensive cigarette from the silver box, Alex lit it and puffed blue smoke extravagantly into the air. "Somewhere warm and where the power of British sterling still exerts some usefulness. I was thinking Thailand or perhaps the Philippines."

"Alex, you know I can't be seen to assist you," Henshaw threw the younger man an agonised look. "If it comes out that I aided an escaped criminal ..." he grimaced and shook his head. "You need to leave here now and don't come back."

Slamming both hands violently down on the desktop between them, Harper leaned abruptly so far forward that Henshaw could feel the heat of his breath. "You don't have a choice, you old pervert," he hissed. "Either you get me exactly what I want or you'll live to regret turning me down," he added nastily, picking up the crystal lighter again. "A lovely house like this," he looked around at the expensive décor and soft furnishings, at the antiques and the artwork. "Such a shame to see everything you've worked for go up in flames, don't you think?" He flicked the lighter open and focused his eyes on the waving flame. "Such a small thing to be able to create so much damage," he murmured softly. "And of course, afterwards, there'd be all sorts of enquiries and God only _knows_ what sorts of things people might find after a fire." Lifting his eyes to Henshaw's pale, shocked face, Alex grinned again. "Money, clothes, luggage and a car," he repeated. "Give me what I need and I'll leave you in entirely peace," he smiled serenely, as if he'd only asked to borrow a set of golf clubs.

With his heart beating thunderously hard in his chest, Henshaw hadn't the slightest doubt that Alex meant every word. The look on the younger man's face when he'd issued those threats ... The only way to be rid of him would be to give him what he wanted.

"How much money do you want?" he husked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"However much you have around the house, old man," Alex laughed now that he knew he'd have his way. "I know you have a decent sized safe in here, so why don't we see what's in there to start with, shall we?"

Of course, if Alex had remembered where the emergency key has been hidden, then he wouldn't possibly have forgotten about the safe. Racking his memory, Henshaw struggled to recall just how much currency he had in there at the present time. He usually didn't have more than a couple of thousand or so in notes unless he was about to embark upon a large case during which he might be called upon to _facilitate_ certain events. His stomach dropped as he remembered the meeting he was lining up with the putative Countess of Apley and the significant amount of palm-greasing that he had planned to do. Groaning silently, Henshaw realised that he must have nearly twenty thousand pounds in the safe at this time. _Damn Alex Harper_. For one furious moment, the thought of denying the younger man's demands fogged his brain, but a swift look at Alex's bleak expression suggested this might not be a terribly healthy thing to do.

Moving over to one of the internal walls, Henshaw clicked open a false wooden panel at waist height, revealing a moderately sized safe in heavy grey steel. Knowing that Alex stood mere inches away with God only knew what kind of weapon, the older man glumly decided to cut his losses. Entering the six-digit tumbler combination, he puller the thick metal door open and stood back. "Take what you need and go, Alex," he muttered. "I don't want anything more to do with you. Just take the bloody money and disappear from sight, if you know what's good for you."

"You always were a good sport, Douglas. This will do very nicely. I don't want to be greedy," Grinning, Alex reached deep into the opened safe, dragging out handfuls of fresh bundles of notes, still wrapped in their tight paper bands. Stuffing several packs into each of his jacket and trouser pockets, he was about to step back when he caught sight of the name written on a thick folder lying directly beneath the cash.

 _Apley_.

Pausing, he pulled the folder out into the light of day.

###

"Which is why I thought you might enjoy having a look at these, my dear," Gwendoline laid a thick bundle of gardening catalogues on the kitchen table before her eldest child. "I did make you and your darling Gregory a promise before you married and I have every intention of keeping my word. I want you to choose whatever plants you want and I shall pay for them immediately." The old woman smiled as she retook her seat. "I may even be able to help you in other areas as well," she added cryptically

"Mummy, this is wonderful," Freddy stared down at the glossy nursery pages, each listing all manner of beautiful garden stock from fruiting trees to ornamental hedging and dwarf flowering shrubs. "But mid-summer is not the best to plant out a brand new garden, even if I had the time and the facilities to do so," Freddy smiled across the table at her mother. "It's a lovely thought but we're going to have to wait until the weather cools, I'm afraid. The plants won't stand the heat-stress otherwise and as this whole garden is probably going to take me the best part of a year to finish, there's really no great rush."

"I did say I could help you in other ways," Gwendoline laughed delightedly, holding out two other documents. The first was the long and comprehensive list of plants Freddy had put together months ago, when she and Greg imagined they might still have sufficient funds to renovate the house and the garden. The second paper was a list of names and addresses, over a dozen that could be seen at a swift glance.

"As soon as I knew what price the Harrow property was going to fetch, I immediately called these three nurseries, you did say they were the best, and set up an account for you and Gregory at each one. I also gave each of them part of your list, though this one," she paused, checking the name on the catalogue. "Said they specialise in mature plants and trees, so I gave them all the big items, I hope that was alright?"

"You've already sent out list of the plants I wanted?" Freddy shook her head to make sense of what she was hearing. "And these nurseries have agreed to supply _everything_? But Mummy," Freddy leaned back in her chair, sighing and rubbing her eyes at her mother's well-intended but ill-considered plan. "I've just told you that now is not the best time to have plants hanging around, especially not in small pots. They'll dry out too quickly and the heat will ..."

"Which is why I can now tell about this list," Gwendoline's happy smile did not waver as she pushed the sheet of fifteen names over the table. "These are all young gardening apprentices at the Royal Parks Horticultural Society." Beaming with pleasure, she tapped the list with a fingertip. "Mr Lewis has a contact in the society. He tells me that about this time each year, the apprentices look around for any major garden developments to include in their project management portfolio," she grinned. "After he gave them a description of your plan and the size of the project, this is the list of young people who have volunteered to come and restore your walled garden for you, for about a week, starting as early as next Monday, if you'd like!" Clapping her hands together joyfully, Gwendoline's laugh was almost breathless. "They were all terribly excited to have an opportunity to work on a truly historical garden. All you have to do is direct them to do what you want to do yourself! They're even going to put in an automatic watering system for you! Oh my darling Freddy, I'm so happy that you can finally have the garden you've worked so very hard to get, through all the hardships you've had to overcome. You'll finally have the garden of your dreams!"

It was a lot to take in and Freddy wasn't even sure where she should begin. "The money alone ..." she lifted a hand, shaking her head. Her mother really meant well, but she had no conception of the work involved in a project of this magnitude.

"All taken care of, my love," Gwendoline hugged herself. The one thing her daughter had wanted was the one thing she would deny herself in favour of doing what Greg wanted for the house. The extra money she was getting from the property developer would more than cover any additional expenditure.

"And then there's organising all the deliveries and checking the stock once it's delivered and before that, there's the setting out of the plan on the ground and preparing the soil ..." Freddy shook her head. "Mummy, this is a fantastic idea of yours and fabulously generous, but it can't possibly work."

Lifting a hand in the air, her mother ticked off items on her raised fingers. "One," she said. "These young people will take care of everything, including organising the deliveries and stock-check. Ewen said that they need experience at dealing with suppliers and all sorts of other trades, as well as practice in using all kinds of heavy garden equipment, but don't worry," Gwendoline added hastily. "There would be a registered training supervisor on site at all times to ensure no errors are made to your plan, _which_ ..." Gwendoline bent another finger down. "You've had drawn up for the last year," she said smugly. "I've seen you toying with that drawing ever since you had the blank space to play with and I know that you've already made your decision on the shape of the thing," she paused, a thoughtful expression pursing her mouth. "If you've changed your mind about anything, I don't suppose it would take you too long to amend your plan, would it?"

Freddy felt her head spin. Was her mother actually correct? Was it even possible to have all these arrangements made ... all these people involved in her own heart's grand idea for the walled garden? Was it possible? Her throat felt dry and scratchy as she cleared it to speak. "I'd need to meet with the training supervisor ..." she blinked several times. Could this whole thing really be done? In a week? Given access to enough equipment and labour, there was no reason why it couldn't ... and if her mother was adamant that money was no object ... _God_. It was an unbelievably tempting thought. Plus, it was likely that Greg would be involved in whatever police situation he'd rushed off to solve ... the idea of having the heavy labour of the garden taken care of would be a blessing for her knee which was, even though she said nothing, still achy at times. _Could it be done?_

Inhaling deeply through her nose, she nodded. "Do you have the name and number of the project supervisor?" she asked, reaching in her bag for her mobile. If this mad plan were actually going to take shape, she needed to know sooner rather than later.

Almost vibrating with excitement and thrilled pleasure, Gwendoline turned over the sheet with the names on to show a single line of information containing a name and two different phone numbers. "I'll go and put the kettle on for some fresh tea, shall I, darling?"

###

Even though not all the information he'd discovered about Alex Harper had been used in his trial six months earlier, Greg had kept a copy of the man's file and of all the nasty little details that had come to light in the course of the investigation. While Greg had not been the leading investigating officer, for obvious reasons, the man who was owed him a thing or two and it hadn't been difficult to collect and collate all the bits and pieces into a single solid bit of analysis. Of all the people currently running around looking for the Ford escapees, Greg knew he had the goods on Harper. He had all of the man's contacts, both law-abiding and unlawful. He knew the man's habits, good and bad. He also knew every single one of Harper's likely bolt-holes. He'd promised Manju that this would be by the book, and it would. Only it would be _his_ book.


	15. Chapter 15

It really was amazing what could be done when you had enough money. Living most of her adult life fluctuating between temporary poverty and temporary abundance, while Freddy had never known complete penury, neither had she experienced wealth. Even now, even with her mother's sudden influx of cash from the sale of the Harrow house, it was an alien feeling to be able to point to something and be able to have it, just like that.

From her work and research in the Chelsea Physic garden, Freddy knew all about the Royal Parks Horticultural Society, although she'd had no professional dealings with that august body. Phoning the first of the numbers of the back of the list of names, she had no clear idea what she was going to say or even what she was expecting. To be honest, the whole idea sounded as if it belonged in a fantasy film. Something by Disney, perhaps. The call connected.

"Hello, Royal Parks Horticultural Society."

"Hello. May I speak with Mr Josua Abiko please?"

"Speaking!" A friendly male voice smiled at her through the connection. "Who is this, please?"

"Oh, Mr Abiko, my name is Freddy Kerr and my husband and I own the ..."

" _Ah!_ The lady with the amazing walled garden in Pimlico! Is this really you? My students have been so hoping that you would call!"

It was hard to resist such unbridled enthusiasm and Freddy laughed. "Yes, my mother tells me you are interested in my garden as a mid-term project for a number of your students, is that correct?"

"Indeed it is, Ms Kerr. I currently have a group of final year students who are urgently looking for applied project work in a gardening development somewhere in or around London for their final practicum. Normally, I'd get one or two of them into some of the ongoing municipal programs that are often taking place in the major parks at this time of the year, but the opportunity to prepare and plant an entire large garden as a group project would be simply amazing ..." the man stopped short. "I'm sorry if I sound excited, but you really have no idea just how special a project your walled garden would be for my students."

Laughing again, Freddy grinned. She knew precisely how easy it was for someone to become carried away with the idea of a new garden; she'd experienced the same feeling herself many times in the past. It must be a gardener's thing.

"It's an exciting thought, Mr Abiko ..."

"Oh, call me Josh, _please_."

"In which case, I'm Freddy. I suppose my mother explained that I have my own landscape gardening consultancy?"

"Your mother was very forthcoming about the background to your garden, but she also said that you were still working on refurbishing the house and didn't have time to begin work on the externals yet, is that about the lay of the land?"

"Pretty much. I hadn't planned to do anything to get the garden going until autumn, when I'd have cooler weather but warm ground."

"Yes. It's not good to plant in the middle of summer unless you can ensure a good watering system."

Which brings me around to some of the proposals you mentioned to my mother. What would your team of students really be able to do? What would they even want to do?" Freddy paused, waiting to hear if all this had been some exaggerated take of her mother's.

"Well, Freddy, it's like this ..."

###

"My my," Alex Harper finished yet another of Douglas Henshaw's imported cigarettes as he closed the heavy legal file. Much of the documentation within the file was extremely familiar. It should have been; Alex himself had written most of it before being thrown in gaol for, in his estimation, an excessively lengthy sentence. Knocking back the last half-inch of cognac in the crystal tumbler by his side, he crossed his legs and looked silently across the room at an awkward Henshaw. "You have been a busy little bee, Douglas. A very busy bee indeed." Harper sat forward. "What are you plans in this matter?"

Knowing that any lie he told would be obvious for what it was, Henshaw realised he was in an exceedingly uncomfortable spot. If he told Alex the truth, that he fully intended to capitalise upon his erstwhile pupil's hard work and research while taking all the credit and all the financial gain for himself, he knew the man sitting on the other side of his desk might react in a somewhat negative and potentially violent manner. On the other hand, if he attempted to make something up on the spot and it was perceived to be a deceit, then Alex's reaction might be equally negative. And equally violent. Douglas thought quickly.

"I was about to make contact with the lady and see if anything might be rescued from your rather clever little scheme," Henshaw selected another cigar from the humidor on the desk and poured both of them another snifter of cognac. "Of course, there's a limit to what I could accomplish alone, but once the matter moved forward, it would have been perfectly natural for me to seek your legal opinion on the situation, no matter where you were at the time. Anything you might be able to do to assist Ms Kerr in re-establishing the Apley title would have looked very positive on your first parole application; a form of personal restitution, in a sense. However ..." Henshaw looked at the glowing end of his cigar. "This gaol-break of yours will not assist matters, Alex," Douglas blew smoke into the air between them. "Not in the least."

"You expect me to accept that you were working on my behalf all this time?" Harper stared at the older man in open disbelief. "Without one visit to me in Brixton?"

"It removes the possibility of collusion, my dear boy," Douglas felt more in his element now, arguing his case, as it were. "There could be no claims of collusion in this you see," Henshaw shrugged as if the process was an obvious one and Alex was simply too gauche to understand the plan's subtlety.

"Though if it becomes known that I've received financial aid from you while I'm on the run, so to speak," Harper narrowed his eyes as he spoke. "Then your plan becomes worthless. Nobody will buy it."

"Probably not," Douglas looked down as the glass in his hand. "I feel you need to make a choice here, Alex, before we go any further with this discussion."

"You mean decide whether I want to be a criminal on the run for the rest of my life, or return voluntarily to gaol and throw myself on the government's mercy? Tell them I escaped on a mad whim? Show them that, at heart, I'm really an ethical sort who believes in doing the right thing?" Alex stubbed out the burned-down stub of the cigarette, a look of deep consideration on his face.

Douglas allowed himself a small humble smile, as if the protégé has finally understood the way of the master. _Perhaps this nightmare might finally be over?_

Standing, his right hand holding the heavy crystal ashtray, Harper's expression slowly changed, hardening, with a dark, hollow look in his eyes that was suddenly terrifying in its impassivity.

_Like the eyes of a shark._

It was Douglas Henshaw's last cogent thought.

###

He'd need to go somewhere off the beaten track, somewhere he knew he'd be safe and potentially protected, but at the same time, somewhere where he could lay his hands on the kind of things he'd need on the run. _Money_ , _shelter_ , _help_. Working his way through his unabridged version of Alex Harper's file, Greg assessed and dismissed the man's contacts one after the other. _Too obvious_ , _too public_ , _too poor_ ... Harper would have a very specific set of expectations from whoever it was he eventually contacted for help, and contact someone he would. There was no way someone like Harper would be able to live off the land without some form of assistance in the very near future.

Tuning over another page of contact information, Greg shook his head, a sense of terrible frustration building inside him as he mentally crossed off yet another group of Harper's potential contacts. _Too famous_ , _too dangerous_ , _too indiscreet_ ... About to flick over yet another page of names in disgust, something held his hand. Greg brought the previous page back into view. Recent work colleagues of Alex Harper. Now what had made him pause on this page? Not the new secretary at Stevens  & Co., obviously. Far too young and without any significant financial background. No way would Harper try contacting her; he'd want a chunk of cash to get out of the country. He'd need someone who was capable of having chunks of cash within easy access ... but what about the senior partners? There were at least two men there with high public profiles, the highest judiciary credentials and long-term public careers. Would Harper be crazy enough to try his luck with people who had so much to lose if word of their complicity got out?

Greg's eyes slid once again down the list, once more dismissing names one after the other. He paused again, noting the one name that might hold a bit more meaning for Alex Harper, his old pupil master.

 _Douglas Henshaw_. Now where had he heard that name recently?

Putting the question to one side, Greg scanned Henshaw's contact information. A Mews house in Belgravia, very nice, had to be worth a bit. The man had lived the bachelor life since the death of his wife a decade earlier, but his main connection to Harper was Henshaw's supervisory capacity when the younger man went into training for the Bar. Interesting that he'd kept himself away from the trial. Greg looked at the photo of a man well into late middle-age, well-dressed in a fleshy and indulgent kind of way. Lestrade would give good odds that the man had a whole raft of personal vices, especially since his missus had departed. There were a number of knocking-shops around town who specialised in exactly this type of clientele and Greg wouldn't be remotely surprised if the man was on first-name terms with a number of the madams. The guy was fairly well-off, lived alone and was very well known by the fugitive. Rather than following a logical process and going through all of Harper's old colleagues one at a time, Greg decided to make an educated guess. As a DCI, his place at this time, in the midst of this national crisis, was here, at the Yard, co-ordinating the efforts of others. As the husband of the woman Harper had almost shot to death, he knew he had to follow his gut.

Pulling his suit jacket on, Greg headed for the lift, car keys jingling softly in his pocket. He knew Henshaw's address from the file and had already worked out the swiftest way there. He had also wondered about signing out a pistol but realised that any such action would smack of premeditation. Greg had no illusions about Harper coming quietly, assuming he managed to find the man, but he'd given Manju his word that things would be by the book. Mostly by the book.

Taking care not to hit the accelerator too fiercely as he left the Yard's underground carpark, Greg kept a tight hold on the swirl of anger and desire for retribution that clenched his guts into a knot. He knew he had to bring Alex Harper in, even if he did nothing else, and this need had nothing to do with Harper being on the run. It was a lot deeper than that, though Greg was not really in a self-reflective mood right now. All he knew was that there was a man out there who'd hurt Freddy.

The drive through Belgravia was relatively swift given the state of the evening traffic and Greg found himself turning into a broad yet empty cul-de-sac between two rows of high-end mews houses. Once these dwellings had been rows of stables belonging to one of the great noble houses, but their size and location had been, for many years, far too tempting to property developers to leave untouched. London mews conversions were not only extremely popular but, in this area of town, extremely costly. As he pulled his BMW to a halt in front of Douglas Henshaw's house, Greg made a quick mental appraisal of the building. The place must be worth five mil at least, so it was a pretty sure bet Henshaw had access to fluid cash. Just what Alex Harper would be after.

Ringing the front door bell, Greg waited will ill-concealed impatience. The man hadn't been in his company Chambers so there was every likelihood he'd be here. A closed garage door to one side of the property suggested Henshaw kept a car, but there were no gaps anywhere for Greg to peer inside to see if the garage was occupied. He rang the doorbell again, lifting the polished brass letterbox cover when there was still no response.

"Mr Henshaw," Greg called loudly through the small opening in the door. "This is the police. We'd like to ask you some questions, _Mr Henshaw_."

There was still no sound or any sign suggesting the man was home. Only the strong smell of fresh cigarette smoke gave any indication that the house was lived in.

Making a low sound of disgust, Greg turned away and headed back to his car.

###

Waiting until the sound of the car engine faded completely away, Alex relaxed, leaning back against the inside of the front door where he'd waited, clutching one of Douglas' larger Sabatier kitchen knives. He'd thought for a moment the police were going to break down the door and come in, which would have made things a little more tricky than he wanted. Especially with Henshaw growing cold on the floor of his own study. He was also quite sure he'd recognised the voice, a voice he'd not heard since that unpleasant day in Harrow when there'd been that unfortunate misunderstanding with Freddy. Maybe he should have let the detective inside, let him join Douglas. At least then he'd have some peace and quiet for a while.

 _Now that was an idea_. With Henshaw out of the way and the police unlikely to return for at least a few hours, he had the run of the place. There would be time to get cleaned up and there would surely be some clothing in the dressing room upstairs that offered a reasonable fit. The notion of being free of his dowdy, dirty clothes and being clean for the first time in days had a suddenly astonishing compulsion. Alex knew there would be a fully-fuelled Audi in the garage next door and, now he had Douglas' little nest egg from the safe, there was really nothing to stop him enjoying the amenities of the house. After all, Douglas wouldn't be needing anything.

Whistling a soft tune, Alex made his way up the heavily carpeted stairway.

###

He could have broken in, but there would undoubtedly have been witnesses, there always were in a place like this, not to mention the sheer number of private CCTV cameras dotted all over the place. Greg sat in traffic, his fingers gripping the steering wheel impatiently. He had a gut feel about Douglas Henshaw and he wanted a look inside that mews house. Unfortunately now, the only way to obtain entry would be to do it the legally if he wanted to keep his job. That meant a search warrant, which meant paperwork and a visit to the nearest magistrate's court. Feeling certain he could mount a suitable argument to get the damn thing, it was only the time lost that niggled. Even at top speed, it would take at least a couple of hours to secure the correct documentation and get back to Belgravia. Still, if that's what it took ... Clearing his throat and grasping the wheel with more force than he needed, Lestrade waited for the lights to turn green.

###

Josh Abiko had been unusually persuasive. Even though Freddy was still in half a mind about the whole notion, it would only be sensible to at least listen to what the man had to say. Given that his students had a limited time to locate and get themselves signed on for this mid-term practicum, Josh had convinced Freddy to allow him and a few of his students to revisit her garden the following morning. He said he'd bring all the project paperwork as well, even though Freddy had warned him that his proposal was by no means a done deal.

"Just talk to them," Abiko had coaxed. "Just listen to their enthusiasm and their determination to do a fantastic job for you," he added. "It's really a wonderful opportunity for everyone involved, yourself included."

"So you really do want your students to do all the work, to handle all the trades, all the services and manage all the deliveries?" Even with so many years of garden projects behind her, Freddy knew that the walled garden would be a massive undertaking. To imagine that everything could be done in the space of a week or two ... "You understand that I wouldn't accept anything but absolutely top-class work?"

"That is exactly why your garden would make the perfect project!" Josh laughed delightedly. "The only way the students can ever find out what it means to work at a professional level is to be given the most professional of clients! Not only is your garden perfect, but so are you! This is a God-given opportunity, _seriously_."

Beguiled by the optimistic assurances and cheerful laughter of gardening comradery, Freddy had acquiesced. Early tomorrow morning she'd open the garden to a group of near-graduate horticultural students and their supervisor. And then she would listen to what they had to say.

###

The blasting heat of the power-shower felt so good that Alex spent longer than he'd planned over his ablutions. He could almost feel slabs of dried and dirty skin being pummelled from his body by the stinging force of the spray. It was glorious. Stepping out with huge reluctance, Harper dried himself on Douglas' luxury Egyptian towels, using one of the expensive colognes he'd found in the master suite's bathroom. Fortunately, he and Douglas had been of a similar height so that, even though Henshaw's suits were far too wide, they were of a reasonable length to look as if he was wearing his own clothes. Additionally, Alex had found a selection of shirts and jackets at the rear of the suite's dressing room that must have been worn by a younger and slimmer Douglas. Though still too loose, the shirts could be tucked into the trousers and a leather belt could be cinched tightly. Of course, the jackets hung off his shoulders, but they were of such good quality that some might imagine the excessive looseness to be a new fashion. Since their feet were of different sizes, there was nothing Alex could do about his shoes, though he'd be able to put that right as soon as he'd left the UK, or even before, if he was careful. In the meantime, he gave the worn shoes a clean and realised that it didn't really matter anyway: nobody was going to be in a position to see them.

Meeting his own gaze in the large dressing-room mirror, Alex was not unhappy with his appearance. It was as far from his prison look as was possible to get. Douglas, despite his hedonistic traits at least had a good eye for clothing and the man had been able to afford it too. Snapping on an outrageously valuable Rolex, in itself good for bartering, Alex tucked a natty handkerchief in his breast pocket and added a pair of black Wayfarers. Truthfully, it would be difficult for anyone looking for an escaped prisoner to link such a one to him now. And once he was in Henshaw's Audi, nothing would stop him: he'd be in the Riviera before tomorrow night. From there, a ship leaving Marseilles to somewhere in the South Americas.

Of course, the passport issue might be a bit of a problem, though not while he was in Schengen territory and once beyond that, well, money was a universal problem-solver. Being in the EU still meant that no passport was necessary to travel from the UK into continental Europe. And with pockets of cash and a full tank in the Audi, nothing was going to stop him. Until then, all he needed to do was wait here as long as possible in order to stay out of sight. Heading back downstairs, Alex decided to make something to eat and then find some distraction to help pass the time. As he passed the open door of Douglas's office, he saw the Apley file still lying on the desk. _Just the thing._

###

He'd missed several situation updates, but Greg was already clear on what needed to be done. Heading up to the fourth floor of the Curtis Green Building, he hunted down Duncan Brimacombe. If anyone had a hot contact with search warrants, it would be him.

"Hey Dunc," Greg caught the man's eye. "Can I have a quiet word?"

"Yeah, sure. What's up?" the tall DI followed Lestrade into an unoccupied corner.

"I need a fast search warrant," Greg confided. "I need it tonight."

"Tonight?" Brimacombe frowned in concern. "Where's it for?"

"Private house in Belgravia," Greg held the man's eyes. "It's important."

"You got a good reason for it?" the big man looked thoughtful. "Reliable tip-off or known address?"

Sighing, Greg knew that Duncan was only doing his job, but this was _instinct_ he was playing and he had to do this legally or any evidence would be inadmissible in court. He also realised that no magistrate in their right minds would sign out a warrant on anybody's 'hunch', especially not for some joint in Belgravia. Too many of their own brethren lived there to make any such action acceptable; it wasn't only the police who looked after their own. Exhaling noisily, Greg saw he'd have to come clean.

"It's a very close contact of one of the principal felons," he said. "In all likelihood, the most probable contact he'd reach out to for help and assistance." Closing his eyes, Greg shook his head in frustration. "I can't tell you why I know the guy's in there or has been there, I just _know_ , okay? There's nobody else this man could go to for everything he needs right now, except the bloke who lives in this house," he held up a scrap of paper with Douglas Henshaw's name and address.

Brimacombe whistled between his teeth. "You know the Deputy Commissioner lives the next road over?"

"I don't want to search the DC's house, only _this_ one," Greg hissed, stabbing at the paper.

Making an awkward face, Duncan shook his head. "Sorry mate. No can do without some definite reason justifying the search. If it's not a known hangout of anyone already being watched, or close family member even ..?" The DI was doing everything he could to meet Greg half way – all coppers knew their hunches were too often right to dismiss out of hand – but the system demanded reasonable proof. Greg's expression turned bleak.

Looking unhappy, Brimacombe rubbed his chin with a thumb. "This bloke is a mate of that geezer what shot your lady, ain't he?"

Puffing out his cheeks, Greg nodded slowly. Well, that was that. He'd never get a warrant now. Once Manju found out what he was up to, he'd be lucky if he was allowed to answer the office phones. "Yeah. I want the bastard before he gets away and before he has time to frighten Freddy anymore," he said. "Allowing Harper to stay on the streets is inviting trouble, I just know it; the man's a fucking psycho."

"Wish I could help mate, I really do," Duncan shook his head again, "but without sufficient cause ..."

"Yeah, I know. It's not you," Greg smiled fleetingly, clapping his friend lightly on the shoulder. "I'll just have to hope something else turns up, eh?" Frustrated and disappointed though not terribly surprised, he headed back into his office. Before he did anything else, he needed to let Freddy know what was going on. Even though there'd been a press blanket over the names of the escapees, the fact that there'd been a mass prison break-out was commonplace by now. He had to tell her about Alex Harper before she heard if anywhere else. He took a very deep breath as he pulled out his mobile.

"Hello darling," his wife sounded happy and pleased which lightened his mood a little. "I'm not expecting you home tonight if that was what you were ringing to tell me. I understand how busy everyone must be."

"You're not wrong, love," Greg took another deep breath. He was not relishing giving Freddy the news. "And the other reason I'm phoning is to give you some details we're keeping from the papers for the minute, until we've caught everyone, really."

"Which is?" There was no hint of concern in her voice and Greg winced.

"One of the escaped prisoners is Alex Harper," he gave her the information in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "We're already following the trails of every single one of the escaped men and it's only a matter of time before all of them are recaptured, but I thought you should hear this from me and not on the grapevine."

"Alex is in London?" There was still no real worry there that he could hear, but Freddy was like her mum in many ways and not making a fuss about things was a way of life with these Kerr women.

"Probably not," Greg made an effort to sound confident. "There are any number of reasons why he'd be crazy to return to London and he's most likely already on his way to some country without an extradition agreement ... he's probably not here, sweetheart."

"But he could be, couldn't he? That's the real reason you're telling me this. Alex could be right here in London, right now?"

"It's possible, but he'd be mad to try it," Greg offered the palliative thought despite knowing in his heart that Harper was mental enough to do just about anything. "But no sense in taking any risks, eh? Let's just be a bit careful around the place until he's banged up again, eh?"

"You think he might try to see me, don't you? You're worried I might be in some danger." There was no question in Freddy's voice; she was making a statement of fact.

Greg's breath seized. It was _exactly_ what he was thinking. And given Harper's previous behaviour ...

"My darling wife," Greg made himself smile down the phone connection. "If you could see the sheer amount of effort going into finding and catching these guys, you'd probably stop worrying on the spot. The Met is pouring more hours of officer contact into this operation than just about anything I've ever seen, so in all likelihood, this will be back page news before the end of the week, however, you are right in that I'm not coming home tonight; there's so many people to organise and coordinate in here. I'm sorry, love, for such a shitty end to the honeymoon, but we can make up for it next week, I'm positive."

There was no point arguing with him, given the situation. Freddy acknowledged that she knew what she was taking on a long time ago and Greg had been perfectly honest with her that his work would sometimes have to take priority. It was unfortunate, but there it was. Everyone had to be adult about these situations.

"I love you and I want you to take care of yourself, darling," Freddy allowed affection and desire to soften her words. "I'm going to be quite busy with the garden for a while it seems, so I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here, waiting for you to come home to me."

 _Oh God_. Greg felt his heart thump as he listened to what he privately called her bedroom voice. Even now, even in the midst of all this chaos, he felt a hard throb of want.

"I need you and your mother to lock up all the doors tonight and check the emergency exits in the house just to be absolutely sure everything's secure, more for my peace of mind than anything else. Will you? Please?"

"Of course I will, you silly man," Freddy laughed quietly. "I'll miss you beside me tonight, though. Our first time apart since the wedding."

"I'll be back before you know it," Greg felt a flash of guilt but pushed it away. This kind of situation didn't happen all the time. "Keep the bed warm for me."

"I'll do my best, darling. Call me when you can."

"Love you."

"See you tomorrow," Freddy knew she had to end the call; it was unfair on Greg to keep him busy when there was so much work for him to do. "Bye, my love."

Staring at the slim black phone in his fingers, Greg felt conflicted. On the one hand, he had a job of work to do and he knew that, whatever else might happen, he'd do his damndest to make things right. On the other hand though, there was his brand new wife, _it was still supposed to be their honeymoon, for Christ's sake!_

His features settling into a determined frown, he determined to get Harper and see this job finished, one way or another.


	16. Chapter 16

_So_ ... Alex stubbed out the latest of his chain-smoked cigarettes and relaxed into one of the several luxurious settees Douglas had in his main lounge. For a few passing seconds, the younger man felt a distinct reluctance to leave this rather pleasant house. It had everything he would need for some time to come and there was little likelihood of being disturbed by anyone other than the police, though that notion did rather put a damper on things. Given the mews had no through road, it might not be the wisest thing to do to stay here without at least making some basic plans for a hasty departure. If he waited until it grew dark, he could take the Audi from the garage and park it some little way from the house so that, if he _were_ surprised, he could at least make good his escape through the back and across a couple of nearby roofs. There were so many carefully constructed fire-escapes in this road alone that he could probably travel quite a distance before he was forced down to road level. All he needed to do first was fill the back of the car with anything he might use to facilitate his travels before he left, after all, Douglas wasn't going to complain.

Blowing the last of the inhaled smoke towards the ceiling, Harper let his fingers rest on the closed Apley file. His erstwhile mentor had at least been meticulous at keeping his records up to date and, from what he'd read in the file, Alex now knew precisely what Douglas had planned to do. It was in fact, a very reasonable plan, with an above average chance of success, though if Douglas had known absolutely anything at all about Freddy Kerr; he'd have perhaps reconsidered his strategy. Freddy was nobody's fool. It was almost a shame that he would no longer be around to witness the end of Henshaw's little scheme; it would have been amusing to see which party would eventually come out on top. Despite everything that had happened between them, Alex held Freddy no ill-will over her part in his arrest and incarceration. A small slip of paper marring the neat stack of documents in the file caught his eye. Idly, he pulled the scrap into the light.

A date and a name. _Married_. Freddy Kerr had actually _married_ someone else ... and not only someone else, but the very policeman whose evidence had proven to be so damning against him in court the previous year. _Lestrade_ , yes, that was the individual's name. The same man who'd demanded entrance to the house earlier. If Alex had known then what he knew now, he'd have been very tempted to let him in. After all, he'd have been doing Freddy a favour in the long run; it surely wouldn't take a great deal of time before she'd come to realise the terrible mistake she'd made by marrying so far beneath her. It was probably her mother's undue influence; the old bat had been forever nosing in where she hadn't been wanted. Not that there was much he could do about any of this now, of course.

_Or was there?_

He had the Audi and the cash from the safe. He could pack a couple of suitcases with Douglas's more expensive belongings and toiletries in preparation for his overseas travel. There was nothing preventing him from swinging by the Pimlico house in the morning; presumably Freddy would be there, mooning over that damned garden of hers. He might even be able to catch a final glimpse of her before he abandoned Britain forever.

But first things first. The sensible thing to do now would be to pack some cases and stow them in the boot of the car in case he had to make a swift departure, though if that Lestrade person returned alone, it would be frightfully amusing to let the man in and have a little ... chat with him before delivering the final _coup de gras_. Freddy would probably thank him.

Whistling softly again, Harper headed back upstairs to find Douglas's suitcases hoping they were Vuitton. He did so dislike mediocre luggage.

###

It was long after midnight as Greg sat in the staff café on the first floor of the Curtis Green Building, staring blearily over the top of a lukewarm mug of coffee. It had been a gruelling twelve hours so far with no sign anyone'd be heading home just yet. He glanced up only when a large physical presence made a sudden intrusion into his awareness. Blinking wearily, he sat back in his chair and looked up at the tousled hair and unshaven face of Duncan Brimacombe.

"Section Seventeen of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act," Duncan was a little out of breath, suggesting he'd run down three flights of stairs instead of waiting for the lift.

"Yeah?" Greg frowned, folding his arms. "So?"

"Means that anyone from an Inspector up can authorise the search of a property once there is reasonable cause or for the purpose of arresting a person for an indictable offence."

"Dunc, I know the regs as well as anyone. What's the deal?"

"Eurostar security personnel caught another two of the escaped cons on their way across to France," the big man grinned. "One of them happened to drop the name of _Henshaw_ in conjunction with Alex Harper during his first interview with the local Kent police. This makes him a person of interest and, given the nature of the situation, then we..."

"Then we don't need to wait on a physical warrant!" Greg grinned madly, leaping to his feet. "Are you authorising a couple of uniforms to go and have a bit of a chat with Mr Henshaw tonight?"

"Already done. They're waiting downstairs." Brimacombe waved a printed sheet of paper in his fingers. "But as this is the first time these particular lads have done this kind of thing, I'd feel happier if there was someone along with them ... just to make sure they know the regs like you and me do," he paused, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and sounding wistful. "Now if _only_ I could find someone who knew this stuff and was willing to go along with them..."

"I love you Dunc," grabbing the paper, Greg planted a smacker of a kiss on the taller man's cheek and raced from the cafeteria, already heading towards the underground carpark.

Even though London never slept, things got fractionally quieter in the small hours, making the roads a little emptier and the journey a little swifter. The dark-grey Ford Focus used blue lights but no siren as it tore up the roads between the Embankment and Belgravia. Only when they were approaching the mews were they turned off. Slowing to a crawl, the car crept into the mews gateway. On Greg's instruction, the engine was killed and the vehicle coasted the last handful of yards up to Henshaw's front door. There were no lights on, not even the exterior security light which seemed strange as every other house in the mews appeared to be lit up. Everything about the place suggested it was either vacant, or everyone was abed.

The two uniforms had already been briefed on what they might be in for and Greg knew he had to let them do their job, which meant he just had to wait until all the legal niceties had been gone through, including several hefty thumps on the door and a loud request through the letterbox requesting entry for the purposes of lawful search.

"Still no response sir," the older of the two constables walked around to the boot of the car, pulling out a heavy piece of equipment. "I take it you want us in there no matter what?"

"Yes," Greg nodded briskly, his breath clouding in the chill of the night. "Quick as you can, lads."

Nodding, the two uniformed men lifted the solid-looking steel battering ram between them, positioning the business end directly below the door's main lock. With a single hefty _thunk_ , the doorjamb splintered as no less than three heavy Yale locks burst away from their strike plates. The solid oak door banged inwards, rebounding off the inner wall and making a hellish din in the quiet night air. In another second, both uniforms were inside with torches, calling Henshaw's name and moving speedily through the open rooms, finding light switches and other doors.

Greg followed in behind, a strange premonition slowing his steps. For some reason, he already knew he wasn't going to find Alex Harper in this house. There was something very wrong here, he knew that too, but Harper, if he'd even been here to begin with, was likely gone by now. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop the anger tumbling from his mouth.

" _In here, sir!"_ The shouted words held a note of anxiety Greg had heard many times before. His heart sank, half-knowing what he was being called to see.

Douglas Henshaw was quite cold. Even without the sight of his brutal battering, just observing the way his body lay unnaturally stiff behind the desk was enough information for the mind to process the fact. Though he was not a qualified forensic expert, Greg had seen enough corpses in his life to know the man had been dead for a number of hours. Henshaw might even have been lying here the first time he'd visited. His expression hardening, he pulled out his mobile and made the necessary calls knowing that, within the next fifteen minutes, the house would be swarming with coppers.

"Wait for me outside," he nodded at the two uniforms. "I've called for Forensic and the SOCOs, so let them in as they arrive and keep everyone else away," he added wearily. "No need of contaminating the scene more than we have, eh?"

As soon as he was alone, Greg looked around the room. It reeked of cigarette smoke and there were cigarette stubs all over the floor; the dead butt of a cigar; two used but empty cognac balloons on the desk, neither of which he touched. On the wood-panelled wall across from the desk, an expensive safe hung open. It looked mostly empty. There also seemed to be dried mud on the rich carpet. Not exactly footprints, but the mud was spaced apart as if brought in on shoes. He looked towards the only external entry, a set of uncurtained French windows. They were closed but perhaps not locked. Staring at the carpet nap just inside the doorway, Greg fancied he could make out heavier mud-marks, though everything was well dried by now. Glancing out into the dark, he observed the vague shapes of garden shrubs and paths. Even at night he could tell the plants were lush and thriving: well-watered too, in this mid-summer heat. He smiled fleetingly; Freddy's knowledge was clearly transferring itself.

Someone had come in through the garden and been let into this room; someone Henshaw knew presumably, as there were no obvious signs of forced entry. That person had persuaded Henshaw to open the safe and they had sat and drank and smoked together for quite some time. Then, whoever the stranger was had killed the barrister with ... with what? Looking down, Greg spotted a blood-smeared crystal ashtray on the floor, half under the far side of the desk. It would explain the scattered cigarette ends. The murder-weapon, then.

Backtracking through the room, Greg stepped carefully where he had put his feet on the way in, ensuring he touched nothing with his hands or clothes. He knew the uniforms had gone through the entire house, so he had no concern about finding anyone upstairs. The rest of the rooms he peered into seemed untouched, though the master suite was an entirely different kettle of fish.

Clothes strewn all over the place, cupboards wrenched open and doors left ajar, used bath towels thrown carelessly across the luxurious carpet. The ensuite bathroom was in a similar state, with costly bottles of shampoo and bodywash dropped to the floor of the shower and containers and jars of stuff simply opened and discarded. A small pile of what looked like old clothing lay heaped in one corner, abandoned by their wearer. There was still a feeling of dampness in the air and the bottom of the large and opulent shower held drops of water. Someone had clearly taken a shower in here within the last few hours, and it certainly hadn't been Douglas Henshaw. Who then? Had Alex Harper been here when he'd called by earlier in the day? Compressing his lips, Greg wandered back into the bedroom, taking great care not to disturb anything. On the opposite side of the room, another doorway stood open. Avoiding the doorframe and sticking only his head inside, Greg saw it was a dressing room of sorts; the walls lined with hanging suits and shirts, and rows of polished shoes on low racks around the perimeter. This too was in a shambles, with many items of clothing pulled from their hangers and simply flung down to the floor. Nodding, he stepped back into the bedroom and looked around the room again in case he'd missed any key evidence.

The large bed was thoroughly rumpled, its covers creased and dragged, as if heavy things had been laid upon its surface and then pulled off, dragging the quilt partially onto the carpet . It also seemed as if the bed itself hadn't been properly made since it had last been used; unusual in a house this well-kept. Looking closely, Greg saw there was indeed the imprint of a head on the pillow closest to the door. Lifting the bedclothes up with a pen, he slid a hand in under the duvet. The bed was still faintly warm. He didn't need to be Papa Bear to know someone had been sleeping in this bed who shouldn't have, but whoever it was, they were gone, but not  _long_ gone. Standing back, he nodded several times, as if confirming his own thoughts. One last thing needed to be checked, the garage adjacent to the house. If it was empty, then he was sending a patrol car around to the Pimlico house to keep an eye on Freddy and her mum until Alex Harper was once more behind bars.

There was a tall sash-window at the end of the passage, looking down into the rear garden and courtyard. As he stepped closer, Greg saw that it opened out onto a steel fire-escape. Without a second thought, he pulled out his phone.

###

He had learned the hard way in prison that it did not do to sleep too soundly. Alex had done little more than doze in the big bed for an hour or so and was awake, dressed and stepping out onto the fire escape at the rear of Henshaw's house an hour before the flashing lights of the police car approached the mew's entrance. The high wall separating Douglas' garden from the next house was not too high to clamber over, even in a suit, and Alex made his way through that garden and out through a secure gate: secure from the outside only. It was a matter of several minutes' walk down a small lane before emerging into Lyall Street and heading swiftly down to where he'd parked the Audi in a quiet section of the street among a line of similar cars. The rear of the vehicle and much of the boot was taken up with filled suitcases as well as an extra can of petrol he'd found in the garage. Brushing any remaining dust from the knees of his trousers, he unlocked the car and slid in the driver's seat. In a couple of hours, it would be dawn and he could go and make his final farewells to Freddy and her mother before he left for the continent. The car was well-insulated and warm and he tilted the seat back as far as he could, closing his eyes: it would be easier to rest now.

The Pimlico house was less than a mile away.

###

Accustomed to sharing a bed with Greg, accustomed to his warmth, his breathing, Freddy found it difficult to sleep alone, though she knew she'd jolly well have to get used to it. No matter how positive he'd sounded on the phone, there was no mistaking the enormity of the current police operation, nor of her husband's role in it. As a DCI, Greg's time and knowledge would be at the disposal of anyone who needed it and she recognised that tonight might not be their only time apart during the present emergency.

Restless and awake two hours before dawn, Freddy decided to give sleeping up as a bad idea and instead headed into the kitchen for some tea. She could use the unexpected time to review her drawn plans for the garden prior to Josh Abiko's horticultural students arriving in a few hours. It was still difficult for her to visualise such a huge project being pulled off in a couple of weeks or less, but Josh had sounded so convincing. It really was going to depend on how each one of the students involved were going to be able to use their time on the project, as well as how everyone could integrate their own specific role into the overall project. Josh had emailed her a dozen or more brief CVs and she scanned through them as she sipped her tea.

 _Soil management_ , _commercial irrigation_ , _nutrient maintenance_ , _drought tolerance_ , _botanical microclimates_ , _companion planting_ ; _design_ ... there were so many areas of interest and speciality that Freddy felt she was going to be in for some spectacular conversations come the morning. To be able to talk about her favourite things with others of a similar mindset. She grinned suddenly. It was going to be such fun, whatever else might come of the day. Looking down at her primary master-plan, she knew what she wanted to do and she knew every step that would need to be taken in order to achieve her goals. If Josh Abiko and his students could persuade her of their capacity to follow her instructions to the letter while simultaneously sharing their own special knowledge with everyone else in the project, then yes; this _could_ be done.

The sound of a car engine in the near-silent street caused her heart to beat a little faster. Had Greg been able to make it home despite his earlier apology? Running back to the bedroom, she peered through the sheer voile drapes to see who it might be.

###

Henshaw ... Henshaw ... _now_ he remembered where he'd seen the name before. It had been in the letter the Duke had shown them up at Floors; _Douglas Henshaw_ had been the name of the bloke who'd contacted Hunters, saying he was the legal representative of the legitimate Countess of Apley. _That's_ why the name was so familiar when he'd heard it. Greg nodded to himself ... _Henshaw_. It made a lot of sense, after all, someone at Stevens  & Co. would have had to take over all of Harper's files and cases and stuff when he was gaoled for fifteen years. A grim expression hardened his face as Greg realised this might also have been why Harper had killed the man. Perhaps Henshaw had taken too much on himself when he'd taken up the Apley inheritance case. Maybe Alex had found this out and decided if he couldn't have all the glory, then nobody could? He shook his head. There was little point speculating, Henshaw was dead and Alex Harper was still on the run.

Despite the earliness of the hour, quite a few people had emerged from the surrounding mews houses, clad in robes or various states of dress, all curious at the disturbance of their sleep with lights and unexpected traffic in the quiet laneway.

Sally Donovan stepped out of her car raising her eyebrows and shaking her head. "Like we don't have enough on our plates already, Guv," she sighed tiredly, looking around at the houses. "This is a posh area; not really the place you'd imagine an escaped convict would head for."

"People in desperate situations behave desperately," Greg acknowledged. "It's still not one-hundred percent positive it was Harper who was here, but my gut tells me it was and it was him who offed Henshaw. They must have had a falling-out or something," he paused, making a vinegary face. "Unless Harper has completely lost the plot, of course. He was mental enough last year; Christ knows what he's like after being banged up in gaol for the last six months."

"Hey yeah, on that," Donovan fished in her coat pocket, bringing out a much folded sheet of paper, handing it over. "This is for you. Also, it turns out someone hacked into the prison records system at Brixton and amended a number of criminal records," she said. "There's all sorts of shit hitting various fans right now, the main concern being what else was hacked and who could have gotten access to the systems in the first place."

Greg whistled quietly. That would explain a lot of things, though his sergeant was right: it was all going to hit the fan in a very big way. But not his problem right now. As of this minute, not only was he going to be coordinating investigations into Henshaw's murder, but also bringing it into the much larger ongoing operation to trace and recover all the escaped prisoners. "Anything new in the update briefings I missed?" he asked, scanning the few printed lines on the paper he'd been given.

"Of the eleven escapees, all but three have been returned to custody," Sally sounded pragmatic. "The three remaining at large, of course, are the three most serious criminals, one of them being your personal favourite."

"So, all three murder convictions from Brixton are the ones still wandering free," Greg wrinkled his nose. "I bet Manju is doing her nut."

"You could say that, Guv," Donovan shrugged. "Though we're getting good public relations on the ones that have been brought back in; most of 'em within twenty-four hours from all around the country, so we're not doing too badly."

"Came too late for the poor sod in there though," Greg nodded towards the house. "Come on. The SOCOs will be nearly done by now and Anderson should have finished with the body. Let's hope we can get some timeframes established, shall we?"

Wrapped up in pale blue protective clothing, Philip Anderson was in the process of repacking an aluminium case with his various measuring devices as they walked into the study. He smiled negligibly. "Based on the liver temperature and the ambient temperature of the room, I'm estimating time of death to have been sometime late yesterday afternoon or early evening. Around nine or ten hours ago, if that's any help." The bearded man continued packing up his gear. "I'll know more once the autopsy has been done, but it's fairly clear he was clubbed to death," he frowned. "It would have taken a lot of strength to do something like that," he added. "It was vicious."

"Sheer strength or psychotic violence?" Greg lifted an eyebrow.

Shrugging, Anderson refused to be drawn. "Hard to tell the difference really."

"If it _was_ Harper and if he's been hanging around here since yesterday, then the odds are he'll be long gone by now," Sally stared around the lavishly decorated room.

"The bed was still warm." Greg kept his hands in his jacket pockets as he watched his forensic expert prepare to leave. "He's not been away from here for more than an hour or so, hence the reason for this," he waved the sheet of paper she'd handed him earlier. "Protective surveillance for the house. For Freddy."

"You don't think Harper would really try anything with your wife, do you?" Donovan sounded dismayed.

"Not taking the chance, the bastard's already had one go at her." Greg shook his head as he walked out of the room, following the forensic trail through the house. There was dusting powder residue everywhere: doors, walls, the desk, the bathroom and all over the kitchen. One photographer was on his knees in the study, taking shots of the muddy footprints, while a second was upstairs in the ensuite. A uniformed constable ran up the stairs.

"The deceased owned a late model Audi A7, sir," he said, consulting his notebook. "Steel blue, plate number LK17 SMR. According to the neighbours, it was usually kept in the garage next to the house, but it's not there now."

"Stolen then," Greg inhaled slowly. It made sense. "Get an all-eyes out on the registration. The driver is likely to be one Alexander Stowe Harper, also being sought as one of the recent escapees from Ford prison," he paused. "Make sure the bulletin notes Harper may be armed and is certainly dangerous. Under no circumstances is he to be approached without backup, got that?"

Nodding rapidly and scribbling even faster in his notebook, the constable ran back down the stairs to find the nearest police radio and central dispatch.

"You reckon Harper might still be in the area?" Donovan walked down the stairs behind her DCI. "Surely the guy isn't that stupid? If he's got the car and whatever valuables Henshaw kept in the house, then he'd be mad to hang around here."

"I don't think we're allowed to use the term 'mad' anymore, Sal," Greg watched as the bagged body of the late Douglas Henshaw was stretchered out of the house. "But however many different words there are for 'fucking mental' we _are_ able to put in the reports, then I'm fairly confident Alex Harper is all of them."

"So what now?"

"Now we look at the CCTV coverage for the vicinity and see if we can track where the Audi went. Even if we only get a general direction, it might give us a feel for Harper's next move. If it were me," Greg paused, nibbling his bottom lip. "I'd head for one of the Channel ferries. There's a ton of tourists going over to France at this time of year and since passports still aren't essential, all he needs is a bodged up driving licence which any of his bent new mates could have got him, and he's away on the wind."

"But all the ferry ports are being watched," Donovan frowned. "There's no way he'd be crazy enough to ... _ah_."

"Yeah," Greg smiled without humour. "With dozens of crossings from here to France each day, hundreds of cars and thousands of people, all it takes is one overworked employee and he's through. Besides, I'd rather catch Harper at Dover than have him anywhere near Pimlico."

###

A police car? _What was a police car doing parked outside the main gates of the house?_ Standing away from the window so as not to be observed watching, Freddy felt her skin prickle. Greg had told her there was probably nothing to worry about, and she'd already checked all the doors throughout the house, but it looked like the clearly marked car was there to stay. Was he being overly cautious? Feeling more than a little guilty at receiving such particular police oversight during what must be a stressful and demanding time for everyone, Freddy's first thought was to call Greg and tell him there was no need to have a car stationed outside the house when obviously, there was an even greater need elsewhere.

But then she stopped. Greg was a seasoned, senior police officer and wouldn't be so irresponsible with police resources, especially at a time like this when everything was stretched to the limit. If he felt that sending a police car to the house was necessary, then it also suggested that he genuinely feared there might be a need for such support. Taking a deep breath, Freddy sat back on the side of the bed. _Greg thought that Alex might be coming to see her._

Even as she sat, wondering, the first pale light of morning lit up the bedroom. Facing partially east, they would always have the dawn light to greet them. Heaving a sigh, Freddy decided to stop trying to double-guess what her husband was doing and to get ready for her group of early visitors who would, she glanced at the beside clock, be arriving in just over an hour. Determined not to be so silly about things, she got up and headed for the bathroom. A hot shower would soon have her thinking straight again.

###

The heavy Rolex he'd liberated from Douglas's dressing room buzzed discreetly against his wrist, as Alex blinked awake. Feeling more refreshed than he had been for a long time, he unscrewed the top of the thermos flask in the seat beside him and enjoyed a very reasonable cup of tea. It would have been nice to have had another session in Douglas's shower, but needs must. There was nothing stopping him finding a pleasant _pension_ off the beaten track once he hit regional France but until then, he'd have to manage. Screwing the top back on the thermos, Harper checked the watch again: almost six. He should be going before the police began tracking the car.

Staring straight ahead, his brain reminded him that this long street ended in Pimlico and, when he left the country, he'd probably not be returning to Britain for a very long time, if ever. This would be his very last opportunity to see Freddy before he went. The rational part of his brain told him that he needed to get out of London fast. Smiling, he started the Audi and pointed the car due south.

His rational mind wasn't always calling the shots these days.


	17. Chapter 17

"Did you say that plate number was LK17 SMR?" the duty officer chasing up Douglas Henshaw's missing Audi frowned at one of the CCTV screens he'd just scrutinised. "Taken from Lyall Mews last night?"

"That's the one," handing over a mug of sweet tea, his colleague stared at the small screen, trying to make out what was so interesting. "You found it already? That's brilliant."

"Yeah, but mate, that's not the interesting part," the first officer pointed at the image. "Look at the name on the road sign on the corner."

Squinting, his tea-making friend did just that, his eyes widening dramatically. " _Jesus wept!"_ he croaked, sprinting out of the surveillance room as fast as physically possible.

"Henshaw's Audi last seen parked in Lyall _Street_ , sir!" the officer skidded to a halt in Greg's open doorway. "Just down from Eaton Place, not two hundred yards from the mews entrance."

"Right. Where is it now?" Greg slung his suit jacket around his shoulders as he pushed past the man in his doorway. Lyall Street was a straight run down to Pimlico and the Audi could be there in minutes. Thank God he'd had the foresight to send a marked car to the house. Having Harper in the area with a fresh murder on his hands, who knew what the man was capable of.

"Duty Ops is watching the recordings now, sir," the officer trailed behind him. "We should have further details for you very shortly."

"Call me in my car when you have it. I'm on my way down to Pimlico. I have reason to believe our man may be trying to see an old friend," Greg's expression was bleak as he sprinted to the lift, his hand already reaching for his mobile.

"Hello darling," Freddy's voice was warm and unhurried and he was instantly relieved. Nothing bad had happened yet, then. "Are you on the way home?"

"You're up early," Greg tried to keep things light, still not sure how much information he needed to share with her; there was little point alarming his wife needlessly. "Couldn't sleep without me, eh?" Pulling the keys from his jacket pocket, he fumbled open the door of his car, his fingers clumsy with haste.

"True," Freddy laughed. "But also because I've got a busload of horticultural students coming to see the garden in about twenty minutes; Mummy's been making all sorts of arrangements while we were up in Scotland. I have so much to tell you when you get home."

Sighing, Greg realised he had to let her know the news; he couldn't have her or Gwennie walking around the place as if nothing was wrong. "I want you and your mum to stay in the house for the time being, babe," he said, yanking the wheel of his BMW around in a tight circle as he pulled out of the underground car park beneath the Curtis Green building. "We have reason to believe that Alex Harper may be in the Pimlico area and there's really only one logical reason he'd be heading there."

"Alex is coming to see me." Freddy's voice dropped low and quiet. "But surely, with the marked police car at the gate, he'd be mad to try and get in to the house?"

"Sweetheart, I've got the feeling that Alex Harper is beyond what would be considered normal right now, but I'm already on my way home and I'll be there in only a few minutes. Just stay indoors until I get there, okay? Don't go outside until you see me. I'm on my way and I'll be at the house as fast as traffic allows. Keep everything locked."

"Of course, darling," Freddy made herself smile into the phone; there was little point letting Greg know just how uncomfortably hard her heart was beating at the awful prospect of meeting Alex Harper in the flesh once again. "I'll wait here for you, I promise."

"See you in a bit," Greg ended the call as he directed the BMW into Abingdon Street where he was forced to a halt. The entire roadway was choked with early peak traffic. Calling up Central on the radio, he demanded to know what in the bloody hell was going on along the Embankment.

"Lights are out at Horseferry Road, sir," the simple explanation brought a groan to Greg's lips. Turning to stare over his shoulder, he saw that he was already boxed in by the cars behind him and there was no way he could reverse his way out of the jam. The memory of a similar experience sprang to mind as he recalled the last time he was late getting to Freddy when Alex had been on his way to see her.

"Well, fuck this for a lark," he snarled, wrenching the steering wheel hard left as he raked the rear bumper of a Mazda hard enough to set off their car alarm. Scraping his way into the currently empty left-hand bus lane, he ignored the shouts of outrage behind him as he gunned his car down Millbank, heading towards Lambeth Bridge.

###

The banged up old minibus took its time navigating the traffic along Grosvenor Road. Far from being a new vehicle, it had, in fact, seen almost two decades of demanding action, carting both passengers and gardening equipment all over the Home Counties. It was currently packed to the gunwales with sixteen young people, each of whom was riding with a stomach-full of excited anticipation. The knowledge that their supervisor Josh had been able to persuade the owner of the Pimlico walled garden to at least _talk_ to them about their plans and ideas was something huge in itself. That the garden's owner was also a professional landscape designer in her own right was something else entirely special and the group of late-teens could hardly believe their luck. Fully expecting their little group to be split up across a number of London garden projects, the opportunity to work as a single team on such a momentous project ... it was just too amazing a prospect. Everyone on the old bus kept their anticipation and anxiety under tight control until it ached. There had been several visits to the lavatories before everyone felt able to board the bus at the crack of dawn and the tension in the bus was palpable.

Josua Abiko felt his own excitement rising every bit as much as his young apprentices. He loved his work as a gardener and designer, and as a teacher too. Even though he'd not yet met the woman face-to-face, he had a good feeling about the potential project and about Freddy Kerr. He had sensed her own enthusiasm on the phone the previous day; it wasn't something that could be easily hidden or disguised. A wide grin stretched across his face as he manoeuvred the old minibus down Sutherland Street towards the big house and the sensational walled garden. He would do everything in his power to convince the woman they were coming to see to let his students work on her garden as their summer project. It would mean so much to them and to the college. He _had_ to persuade her.

There were lines of cars along either side of the street; parking clearly at a premium in this part of town. However, he wasn't terribly bothered, Freddy having advised him to drive straight in through the big gates at the front of the property. There would be ample space to park the bus inside.

As Josh turned into Westmoreland Place, his eyes caught sight of the parked police car. In its current position, it was blocking the entire gateway, giving him no chance to drive into the garden itself. Finding a smallish empty spot by the side of the road, Josua pulled the van in, turning off the engine before he started to climb out.

"Everyone stay put," he instructed. "I need to ask the police to move so I can go through the gates. No mucking about now, okay? We're all on our best behaviour today, remember that." It was the effort of seconds only until Josh reached the side of the parked police car. Leaning down, he smiled in through the window and waved at the two uniformed officers in the front seats. The window glass nearest him slid down silently.

"Can we help you mate?" the policeman was polite but not terribly interested. They'd been sitting in this spot for a good couple of hours now and things were beginning to go numb. It was also long past his breakfast time and he thought longingly of a decent cup of coffee.

"Hi, yes," Josh flashed a swift white grin. "I've got an appointment with the lady owner of this house," he pointed at the big gates, "to take my students inside to talk about garden design," he smiled again. "I need to drive our minibus inside and park in there, off the road," he added, pointing back at the ancient wagon with its youthful cargo. "But you're blocking the gates. I wonder if you wouldn't mind moving for a minute so we can drive inside?"

"Sorry mate," the officer shook his head. "We've been sent here to make sure nobody gets inside this property for a while. Not sure we can let anyone inside for any reason, right now. Sorry again," the officer raised his eyebrows apologetically.

"But we were invited by the owner," Josh started to feel exasperated. "Look, here's one of her cards with her number. Can you at least give her a call and see if she's okay with us coming in? I've got sixteen very hyped-up teenagers in that bus who are dying to get to work on the lady's garden," he paused, a hopeful look in his eyes. "Please?"

Checking the name and address on the card, the officer conferred briefly with his colleague. Pulling out his phone, he called the number on the card, his gaze fixed firmly on Josua's face.

###

"Oh, but of _course_ you must let them in," Gwendoline carried the cordless phone from its holder on the hall table and walked towards the front door of her ground-floor apartment. "It's quite alright, Officer," she smiled into the phone. "This visit is all above board and expected," she added, only then stopping to wonder why a police car might be parked outside the main entrance. "I'll come and open the gates myself to allow them in." Ending the call, Gwendoline walked from the imposing front door across the bare expanse of garden, toward the gates in a sprightly manner belying her advanced years. In less than a minute, she'd unlocked the heavy double gates and swung them wide. They had long since been restored to their past glory and now glided easily open at the slightest touch. As they reached their zenith, Gwendoline lowered the holding bolts into the buried ground sockets to stop them swinging closed again.

In the process of pulling on a worn pair of jeans, Freddy caught the unexpected movement from the corner of her eye. Looking down from the nearest bedroom window, she watched her mother pull the big gates wide open and stand there waving at the parked police car, directing them to move away. _What on earth was she doing?_ Of course, her mother hadn't yet been told of Greg's advice to stay inside the house ... wriggling into her boots, Freddy dashed through the apartment to the rear stairs and out towards the main front door. Even as she stepped outside, she watched as the police car pulled away from the position it had held before dawn. Calling as loudly as she could, Freddy realised it was no good; her mother couldn't hear her voice at such a distance over the noise of the police car's engine. All she could do was get to the gates as fast as possible and shut them securely until Greg arrived.

###

Fortunately, there were a fair number of new cars parked in the avenues of Pimlico these days, Alex reflected as he cruised the Audi along Lupus Street. Henshaw's car, though of an excellent quality, would not attract disproportionate attention if he parked it in the vicinity of Westmoreland Place. He eased the vehicle carefully into the proper lane, looking for a clear spot. Despite the relatively early hour, there were a number of individual parking places empty of their usual cars, though none close to the entrance gates of the big house. He pulled into a space almost fifty yards from the entrance, the Audi's colour muted under the shade of a heavy-leafed sycamore tree. It was only as he turned the engine off and looked around, that he saw a police car begin to move towards him. Utter shock at seeing the police so close, froze him momentarily, before he flung himself flat across the front seats, a sinking chill in his stomach as he wondered if they'd seen him. Apparently they hadn't, as the car continued up the one-way street past his shady tree.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Alex considered his situation. He really should leave the area immediately. There was no logical reason for him to be here in the first place and staying any longer was simply inviting trouble. But he'd not seen Freddy since those few scant occasions when she'd been in court during his trial ... surely he should at least make an effort to catch a glimpse of her this one last time? Once he'd left Britain, he'd probably never return; this would be his absolute last chance to see her. Sitting back up in the car, he watched as a tall, casually dressed man walked away from the gates and climb into a somewhat battered minibus, starting the engine and driving back towards the entrance. To his great surprise, it went straight through and into the enclosure beyond. What was going on? Who were these people? What was Freddy doing, allowing so many strangers into her private garden? Without realising, Alex had stepped from the relative safety of the Audi and was already walking down the pavement towards the open gates. He was half-way there when the marked police car returned and parked itself directly in front of the entrance.

Clenching his jaw, Harper realised he had no chance now of getting inside the garden to see Freddy with the police in his way. He may as well return to the Audi and leave the area as swiftly and covertly as he could. A sense of betrayal and injustice grew in his chest. He had come all this way simply to say goodbye and now he'd been obstructed by the police. There was no fairness in this; all he'd wanted to do was have a brief word before he left forever. Sitting in the driver's seat of the car, the sheer inequity of the situation made him feel hot and bothered. He'd made it all this way to say goodbye; he _deserved_ the opportunity to do so. _It just wasn't fair_. Very well. If he couldn't bid Freddy farewell in the usual manner, he'd have to think of something less conventional. Something, some signature event that would make it clear it was him, that would be momentous and unforgettable. If he had a gun, he would have thought about using it.

Casting his mind through the collective goods in the suitcases in the car, Harper smiled. He had the perfect idea.

###

The urge to floor the accelerator was almost unbearable, but the big double-decker bus in front of him was just too massive to try and squeeze around. Checking his watch, Greg gritted his teeth and yanked the wheel left again, directly onto the broad pavement all the way along the rest of Millbank, right up to Vauxhall Bridge Road where a sharp right turn in front of two lanes of oncoming traffic resulted in a cacophonous roar of beeped horns and screeching brakes. Only seconds later, he veered left into Lupus Street. Compressing his lips, he put his foot down.

###

"He's there! He's right bloody _there!"_ His finger stabbing at the screen, the Duty Operations officer was standing, goggle-eyed at the real-time images on the CCTV monitor showing a prosperous street view of lower Pimlico. He was yelling down the phone. "LK17 SMR, late model Audi, wanted in connection with one Alexander Stowe Harper, lately escaped from Ford Open Prison, repeat, _Alexander Harper_ , is right bloody _there_ , under your sodding noses. Get out of your car and look around the corner and you'll see him? Jesus Christ! _Harper is right there!"_

###

Emptying the dregs of tea from the thermos flask, Alex slipped into deeper shade beneath the tree as he walked around the Audi, opening the boot. Inside, three large and heavy suitcases took up much of the available space, but there had still been enough left to load in the filled petrol can. Carefully unscrewing the stiff cap, he filled the thermos almost all the way up to the top. Stuffing the rest of the empty space with the larger part of a torn shirt, he had the makings of a basic Molotov cocktail. It would take very little additional effort to set the fabric alight and heave it over the tall stone wall. He had no idea what might be on the other side but frankly, he wasn't all that bothered. The second the thermos left his hand, he'd be back in the car and on his way to the coast. Closing the boot, Harper rummaged in his jacket pocket for Henshaw's gold lighter, another piece he'd liberated. Feeling something akin to elation, Alex struck a neat little flame, holding it to the material.

###

Tyres howling in protest against their improper treatment, Greg's BMW swerved into Westmoreland Place without any lessening of speed. He saw the parked police car outside the big gates, saw the uniformed officer in the process of leaving the vehicle and watched the man's face turn towards the speeding car in surprise and concern. The officer clearly recognised the driver as he frantically waved Greg on around the corner, towards Sussex Street, starting to run in that direction himself. Not pausing to ask why, Greg poured the power back on and headed the wrong way up the one-way street.

There were rows of vehicles parked on both sides of the road, there were big shady trees. There was movement beneath one tree on his left; at the rear of a stationary car, deep in the penumbra of a mighty sycamore. A man, a well-dressed man, his hand holding something bulky. Greg's brakes squealed bitterly as he threw the BMW into an emergency stop, leaping from the car before he was entirely certain it had even come to a halt. He heard shouts behind him as the two uniformed officers closed in. He was only feet away as the man beneath the tree turned at the sound of pounding footsteps, a growing expression of shock and rage changing the shape of his features.

 _Alex Harper!_ Greg felt a furious anger explode in his chest as the man pulled back his arm in preparation of throwing the bulky object over the top of the garden wall. _Over Freddy's garden wall_. Greg swallowed the coppery tingle of blood in his mouth as he bit into the side of his tongue with clenched teeth. Hurling himself bodily at Harper, no more than a couple of feet away, he was blind to all sights except the man already falling beneath his ferocious grasp. So wild and powerful was his attack, that Greg's impetus bowled them both over, his own body tumbling beyond Alex who crumpled soundlessly to the pavement.

The petrol-filled flask still clutched in one hand, Harper didn't notice the already flaming rag had come out of the top, spilling the flammable liquid across the loose suit material of Henshaw's stolen suit. By the time Greg regained his feet, the two uniformed officers were on either side of the parked Audi, already preparing to arrest and restrain the man half the Met had been searching for since yesterday morning.

But something was wrong.

Standing, Alex suddenly noticed he'd been doused in petrol at the same moment the flickering flame from the saturated rag came into contact with his soaked clothing. With a startling _whump_ , he was engulfed in smokeless flame from ankle to chest. Screaming soundlessly he ran out into the road, trying to wrest the overly large jacket from his body, but his arms were tangled up in the sodden fabric.

"Get him down!" Greg shouted, still getting back onto his feet and pulling off his own jacket to smother the flames. " _Get a blanket on him!_ Put the fire out!"

Whether it was the sheer panic of the situation or the fear and pain of the livid flames, avoiding every hand, Alex ran madly out into the road as if he were trying to leave his burning clothes behind him.

Neither he nor the horrified driver of the Toyota Land Cruiser had any opportunity to avoid one another and the fleeing man went under the front wheels of the big vehicle without a sound.

###

The minibus was already halfway in through the gates by the time Freddy reached her mother, her chest heaving at the unexpected exertion.

"Greg phoned me to keep the gates locked," she panted. "He thinks Alex Harper might be trying to come and see us."

Floundering in surprise for a moment, Gwendoline looked askance at the notion. "You'd better close them in that case," she indicated the open gates. "And I'll see to our guests."

Seeing the police car retake its position across the front entrance went some way to relieving her concern, especially as Greg had promised he'd be there shortly himself, in any case. Closing and locking the entrance to the garden took seconds only, though she could hear some strange sounds on the other side of the wall: the screeching of a car's tyres, muffled shouting ... Freddy hesitated. Should she see what was happening outside? Remembering the parked police car, she shrugged. If there was anything untoward happening, Greg would demand that she leave things to the experts. Taking a deep breath, she put a smile on her face and walked over to the parked minibus and the small crowd of young gardeners looking at her with such expectation on their faces.

###

Leaning wearily against the outside of the high stone wall, Greg wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of a hand. They'd managed to pull Harper's body out from underneath the Toyota and extinguish what few flames remained, though the man was clearly beyond any medical help. Taking his jacket, already torn from the earlier scuffle, he had laid it decently over the body, waiting for the SOCOs and the ambulance to arrive and do what was necessary. Not until all the procedural requirements been taken care of, the Toyota driver interviewed for a brief statement and reassured that he was not to blame in any way, did Greg feel able to lean against the wall and close his eyes in blessed relief. It was over, it was all over. Alex Harper could no longer threaten Freddy's safety or happiness and that knowledge lifted a huge weight from his shoulders.

There was blood on his hands from a set of skinned knuckles, his suit was ruined and he stank of petrol and smoke. Greg knew he had to return to the Yard to put in his own statement, but he felt he'd earned the right to a shower and change of clothes first. Digging in his trouser pocket, he pulled out the key for the new Yale lock they'd had put on the big gates and walked over to the waiting police car.

"It's all over lads," he sighed heavily. "Nothing more to do here, so head on back to base."

"Right you are, sir," the older officer nodded, heading towards the driver's side. "Want us to relay any messages for you?"

With a tiny grim smile, Greg blinked slowly. "Tell Sergeant Donovan that Alex Harper can be taken off the list," he said. "And that I'll be in as soon as I've cleaned up."

As the police car drove away, Greg turned to look around at the road, so lately the scene of a gruesome death. There was nothing left to see; no scorch marks, no bloodstains, nothing in fact, to remind either he or Freddy that Harper had met his end within tantalising grasp of his goal. Sighing again, Greg crawled back into his BMW, pulling it into the shelter of the gates before fitting gate the key in the lock and walking into his own garden.

###

Freddy had brought out the same old picnic table she and Greg had eaten at so very long ago, laying her grand design across the wide flat surface. Each of the students took turns examining both the drawn designs as well as the written plans, each asking endless questions regarding the choice and proposed planting location of the major trees and shrubs, the type of irrigation strategies in play and the nature of the soil and subsoil. Eyes were shaded in the brightening sunshine as eager fingers pointed out intriguing places within the walls, marking each one for special consideration. Surrounded as she was by so many bodies, most of them far taller than she, Freddy did not observe Greg's entrance or his slow walk up to the house. But her mother did.

"Are you quite well, my dear?" she asked, taking in his dishevelled state and bloodied skin. "Shall I fetch Freddy for you?"

"Nah," he shook his head, smiling ruefully. "I know how important this garden is right now. Let her be. We'll catch up later."

"And ... _Alex?"_ Gwendoline met his gaze unflinchingly.

"No longer of any concern to anyone in this house," Greg smiled again, slinging an arm around the older woman's shoulders. "Gwennie, I could murder a cup of tea," he grinned. "And a shower."

"Let's get you inside and sorted out then." Patting his side, his mother-in-law drew him into the house and away from any wondering eyes.

Dropping his clothes in a heap on the floor in the kitchen of their apartment, Greg walked naked along the passage to the master suite. Through the tall windows, he caught a glimpse of Freddy below, still surrounded by a gaggle of students. Despite everything that had happened in the last twenty-four exhausting hours, he smiled. For the first time in a very long time, he realised that that shadow Harper had cast across both their lives was finally gone. The hot water that washed away the sweat and grime also seemed to carry away the last residue of anxiety Greg had. It had been a very long time since he had felt this light and carefree, years, in fact.

Pausing under the pounding spray he stopped scrubbing, realising that in just over a month, it would have been a full year since he and Freddy had met; that amazing first experience with Mike Stamford down at the local pub. As he massaged shampoo absently through his hair, his memory returned to the first time he'd seen her and how mad he'd thought her ideas had been. Shaking his head as the memories of all the things they'd both gone through and endured in that time came flooding back. Who'd have thought they'd have passed so many milestones in only a year.

Emerging from the shower, Greg was just in time to miss the last ring of his mobile. Reaching across to where he'd thrown the thing on the bed, he opened a message from Manju, telling him to get some rest and come in fresh in the morning. He'd done his bit for Queen and Country and could be forgiven the need to sleep, especially since he was technically still on leave. Groaning with relief, he wrapped himself in a long robe and wandered back to the kitchen where Gwendoline had not only made him a pot of tea, but was in the process of cutting several large sandwiches in half.

"I expect you haven't had time to eat properly since you left here yesterday afternoon, have you?" she asked perceptively. "Have something now, dear boy, so you'll be ready for the next call to arms."

"My boss just sent me a message not to go back to the Yard until tomorrow morning," Greg sighed blissfully as he took a big swig of hot tea and a massive bite of chicken sandwich. "I might just sit here like this for the rest of the day." He fell silent as a great wave of weariness washed over him. "If Freddy's going to be talking with that mob downstairs for a while, I should get some shuteye in the interim and then she can tell me all about it when I'm feeling a bit more civilised."

"Good idea," Gwendoline noted the blue shadows beneath his eyes and the dark stubble he'd not even attempted to shave. The boy was deeply fatigued, anyone could see. A nap and some food would do him the world of good. "You go and have a few hours' sleep and I'll let Freddy know you're here when she's finished with everyone downstairs."

"You're a Godsend, Gwennie," Greg yawned, blinking tiredly. "Just tell her everything is okay now and she's not to worry about anything anymore."

"I'll tell her, darling. Now go and lie down. I'll make something nice for lunch."

"Lunch would be great," Greg yawned again. "I'm not going anywhere." Walking back into the big bedroom, he pulled back the duvet and tumbled in on the warm softness, the scent of Freddy's hair filling his senses. He was asleep in moments.


	18. Chapter 18

Everyone was waiting for her to break the soil. It was all very symbolic as most of the heavy work was going to be handled by the several small rotovators and diggers but it was the ceremonial nature of the thing rather than the action itself that counted. Cheers, applause and whistles echoed around the gathered group as she was solemnly handed the White Hard Hat of Supervision. They'd even printed her name across the back in red paint.

Freddy laughed, handing the special spade back to Megan who'd already shown herself to be something of a leader in the group. She and Emily and Jack were specialising in project management so giving them the opportunity to keep the entire garden project on track was excellent practice for them all. Nodding at her from behind the group, Josua Abiko gave her a thumbs up sign. It was all up to them now. Taking a deep breath, Freddy nodded, stepping back up onto the front steps of the house.

"How'd you feel, love?" Having decided not to head off for a long weekend, instead Greg had arranged to take the last few days of his honeymoon leave at this time. He'd wanted to be there at the start of things in case there were any problems, though he couldn't imagine what. The entire project, complete with 3D computerised CAD drawings, timeframes, lists and costings, had been prepared in a remarkably short time and given to Freddy days ago. It had taken her one day to go through everything, checking the details against her own plan, and then another to decide whether to take the plunge. It made perfect sense to allow the student group to use her garden as their summer project; it meant everything would be handled professionally, swiftly and safely and at no additional expense to herself. The only costs she would cover were the actual plants and trees and any materials used in setting out the garden itself. Since her mother had already opened accounts with several garden suppliers and given her own contacts in the industry, not even a lack of cash would get in the way of the project. It was a perfect arrangement and she'd have been a fool to turn it down.

 _And yet_. It was _her_ garden, _her_ dream and the brainchild of many sleepless nights and early dawns. Was the getting of the project support worth the sacrifice of the enjoyment she knew she'd have in the actual planting of her garden? It was a question only a gardener would ask, yet it was the key sticking point in Freddy's decision. But then she realised that she'd already had much of that joy in the design, the day-dreaming and meticulous planning; the physical side of planting was nothing she couldn't do elsewhere at any time.

It had been the looks on their faces that had persuaded her to go ahead and agree to the arrangement; the eager, hopeful expressions of young people, just beginning their careers.

"I feel perfectly fine, darling," she smiled up at the man behind her, gripping his forearm across her chest as Josua waved the entire group to their pre-planned stations.

Huge piles of good quality topsoil, compost, sand, gravel and Dorset limestone sat at the far end of the walled garden, waiting to be transferred to the newly laid out planting beds and pathways, though the first things happening were mostly technical as the enormous irrigation system was laid out. The underground pipes were the first to be laid in neatly regimented rows; the drip lines and sprinkler systems would be last.

"This whole project has a biblical ambiance about it, to be honest," Freddy stroked the warm skin of his arm as she watched the students begin laying out the irrigation according to her plan, using theodolites and marker posts. She waved a hand generally at the bustling scene "Six days to make heaven and earth. I feel vaguely godlike."

"We could always go back to bed and see if we can make the ground move in our own way," Greg murmured wickedly against the back of her neck. "There's not much you can do here now but watch, and Josh seems to be very much on top of things."

The decision to spend a few days overseeing the work on the garden rather than flying overseas for a long weekend came as a natural result of Freddy's agreement to go with the project team. It hadn't bothered Greg in the least and in fact, worked out really well, as it gave them both a few days to put their heads together and organise the final details of the top floor apartment. Not that there was a huge number of things still to be done; the basics had been in place for several months, the place just needed to be finished up and displayed for the potential buying public.

"You seem to be very keen on sex at the moment," Freddy's smile grew intimate. "Bit late for spring, isn't it?"

Laughing softly, Greg tightened the arm he held around his wife. It was true, though. He had been feeling the joys of spring recently; perhaps it had to do with the lifting of the shadow that was Alex Harper, finally and for good. Or perhaps there was something about her that seduced him effortlessly. "You didn't complain earlier," he observed mildly.

"I'm not complaining now," Freddy turned in his arms, resting her palms on his chest. "I just don't want you overdoing things; you're not as young as you were, you know," she smiled sweetly, fluttering her lashes at him.

"Right then. Let's leave this lot get on with all the backbreaking work, while we go an swan around upstairs like the Capitalists we are." Taking one of her hands in his, Greg turned and marched up the entrance steps. Striding through Gwendoline's apartment, they walked around to the side door that led out and up into the covered brick staircase. Still pulling her behind him, Greg unlocked the heavy door at the top of the staircase and closed it behind them. Alone in the top apartment for the first time in weeks, both had the opportunity to see the place through fresh eyes.

A light coating of dust dulled the darkly polished wooden floorboards from a shine to a gleam, though there was no dirt or debris left; everything had been thoroughly cleaned the last time they worked up here. The smell of fresh paint had moderated somewhat and now everything simply felt clean and untouched. Hand in hand, they walked to the newly installed kitchen, the same model they'd chosen for their own apartment, though styled a little differently. The colour palette up here though darker, seemed actually lighter, the reason being all the additional light the upper floor received out beyond the shadow of trees and other buildings. The apartment felt stylish, luxurious, but also comfortable, spacious and a pleasant place to live.

Both bathrooms shone with their glossy new porcelain suites and shining brushed steel fittings, understated but by no means low-grade. Greg had given up his dream of installing fantasy bathrooms up here and he was glad now; anything flashier would feel gauche and cheap. As it stood, the entire place was a testament to style, quality and good British workmanship. There was only the installation of the blinds in the bedrooms and some classic pendant lampshades over the long kitchen island.

Standing in the middle of the open-plan kitchen, admiring the elegant layout and the quality of the natural light that pervaded the entire room, Freddy was caught off-guard as her husband engulfed her in his arms, holding her tight and kissing her with a passion that took the strength right out of her knees. Half expecting him to sit her up on the kitchen benchtop while he continued his seduction, Freddy was surprised again as Greg groaned, his arms still tight about her but making no further attempt to command the situation.

"Are you alright darling?" her voice was husky with desire.

"I love you so much," he whispered against the top of her shoulder. "I can't believe you make me feel like this every day, that you want me to share all this with you for always."

"Oh _Greg_ ," Freddy wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning her head against his. "You are the biggest silly. Of course I love you. You're a very lovable person."

Lifting his head, she saw his eyes were bright with unspoken emotion.

"If you'd like to continue what you started here," she suggested sensibly. "Can we go back downstairs? I'd much rather be ravished in our nice soft bed than on this dusty floor."

"Hold that thought," he smiled lopsidedly. "We need to get these last few things sorted out and have the place nice and clean by eleven-thirty tomorrow morning."

"Is that when the agent is arriving?" Freddy brushed a strand of hair from his face.

"This first one, yes." Greg nodded, keeping his forehead against hers. "The next one's at one-thirty and the last one is due at three-thirty. I reckon spacing them out every couple of hours would mean they'd all be finished before the next one was due to arrive."

"Three?" Freddy was surprised. "You've booked three different agents?"

"One thing I discovered when I was selling my last house is that you never go with the first estimate, but you need to get a few in and then take an average," he took a deep breath, his arms still around her. "I want this experience to be a positive one for us; we've had to wade through all sorts of unpleasantness recently and it's time something went well for us."

"You know once this top apartment is sold, we can never control who lives in it, don't you?" Freddy searched his expression. "The new owner might be an accountant or the guitarist in a rock band."

"Which is why we've going to put a security clause in the leasehold to the effect that this is part of a heritage property and certain maintenance and habitation agreements need to be acceptable to the purchaser," Greg smiled. "Don't forget, I have access to some very sound legal advice," he smiled again. "And all of it free."

"Then I'd better go and get my feather duster," Freddy sounded happy.

"The one with the French maid outfit?" Greg squeezed her tight again.

"You'd better get those lampshades fixed."

"Slave driver."

###

The first day of the garden project had gone well. There had been a few small teething problems, but the group had settled down to the work quickly. Everyone knew they were under the hammer in terms of the project timeframe and each day for the entire ten days they were due onsite, a major element of the overall garden plan needed to be completed.

Day one had been preparing the soil and laying in the main irrigation pipes. It had seemed an impossible task given the size of the enclosed garden, the intricacy of the garden design and the sheer volume of soil that needed to be tilled, prepared and levelled. However, Freddy had never worked with sixteen enthusiastic eighteen-year olds before and their energy levels verged on the miraculous. Not only were they gunning the leased machines to within an inch of their ability, but each student seemed to know precisely what they were expected to do and both Freddy and Greg watched the slightly muddy ballet with a dreamy sense of amazement. The heaped piles of raw materials had already been redistributed into much smaller piles in various strategic locations around the garden space and small orange and yellow spikes adorned the now-flattened ground in a bewildering pattern. The company leasing the small diggers and 'dozers had arrived just before sunset to retrieve their cleaned-off equipment, much to the disappointment of several of the girls who were just getting the hang of the diggers. After a round of weary farewells, the entire crew had returned to the college minibus and headed home.

They had all returned this morning before six. A little sore and with a few blisters, there was a new camaraderie as they bent to the enormous task once again. Today, day two of the project, was to see the delivery of the hard architecture; the bricks for the walls, the carefully selected limestone pavers; the key irrigation pipes and the larger of the trees. It was just as well that all the ground had been so well prepared the day prior, as there'd be little opportunity to rectify any mistakes given the punishing schedule that Josh Abiko had set the group.

Greg had arranged to meet the valuation people at the front of the main gates so each one could be given a small copy of Freddy's garden plan in order that they could get at least some idea of the finished project. Then he would take them around the back of the house to show the new double garage they had built into the rear section of the garden for the new owners of the top flat, together with the small, fenced-off private garden with its tidy lawn and neat herbaceous beds, ready since before the wedding. The flowers Freddy had planted in this sheltered little sun trap had grown tall and lush, with a white trailing rose already spreading out across the new garage roof, drooping its heavily scented blossoms across the top of the iron garden gate leading into the enclosed stairwell. The soft buzzing of bees fumbling the tall hollyhocks and the occasional flutter of butterflies added to the idyllic little scene.

"So you can see," Greg looked at Ross Burry from Hamptons as he indicated both the heavy garden gate and the steel-barred gate leading out into the street. "We've taken especial care with security for this private entrance and, as a police officer, I'd suggest the new owner consider installing a safety camera just about here," he pointed to a spot high up on the stairwell wall. "Nobody would be able to get up here unseen," he said. "It might make the owner feel safer, if they were at all concerned about anyone accessing this private staircase."

The Hamptons man recorded everything as well as taking endless photos and video segments. He'd asked a few questions about the leasehold conditions, about the council's support for the house refurbishment and about their solicitors, but other than that, he'd been mostly silent, taking in every detail as Greg showed him around the outside.

"My wife's waiting in the apartment to show you around up there," he said, smiling. "As you know, we're living on the floor below so we'll be able to deal with any issues immediately," he added. "Not that we're expecting anything; we've gone for the best of everything since we began the renovation last year."

"It's very nicely done, very professional," Ross Burry nodded quietly as he followed Greg up the enclosed winding staircase to the main external door of the top-floor apartment. The heavy oak door had been stained a dark greeny-brown before being sanded back to allow the wood grain to show through. After several liberal coats of heavy-duty varnish, it looked solid and impressive, matching and yet contrasting with the natural stone shades of the original wall of the building.

"Please," Greg opened the door and pushed it wide. "Come in and have a look around."

The fragrance of freshly made coffee wafted along the passage to meet them and Freddy smiled as she saw the agent appear. "Coffee or tea?" she asked, pouring out mugs for herself and Greg. "My mother made some scones if you're in the mood for elevenses," she said. "We've both been up since dawn, dealing with all that enthusiasm down there," she tipped her head towards the garden below, smiling. "Their good humour is infectious but a little exhausting."

Accepting both a coffee and one of Gwendoline's scones, the valuation agent took his time looking around the place, admiring the natural light and the tranquillity afforded by the heavy stone walls. Even though the house was at the junction of several fairly well-used streets, there was almost complete silence inside. In London, this was often an understated bonus.

"Apart from the potential general market, we have a number of clients on our books who are looking for very particular types of property," he chewed his scone thoughtfully, examining the fine grain of wood in the kitchen cabinets and the solid feel of the restored floorboards beneath his feet. "I can see this apartment appealing to a number of people."

"As long as they are happy with the conditions of the lease," Freddy raised her eyebrows. "They must be owner-occupier, for example," she said. "We don't want to sell this apartment to an investor only to see it sublet to an endless stream of tenants, you see."

"Even though you might well realise a greater income that way?" the man looked at her carefully. "Most people want their property to achieve the very highest price."

"Given the work we've both put into this place, as well as the fact that we'll be living in the lower floors of the house, we'd rather sell to the right buyer than to the wealthiest one," Greg finished his coffee and gestured down the passage towards the master suite. "Shall we?"

It took another thirty minutes for the agent to inspect every nook and cranny in the apartment, paying special attention to the newly installed first escape that lead down to the kitchen garden and the extra wide window in the passage beside the main entrance, designed specifically for ease of installing or removing furniture from the street level. He seemed particularly interested in the amount of sunlight pouring into the main bedroom.

By the time they'd farewelled the man, it was only an hour before the next agent was due. It gave Freddy just sufficient time to go and have a chat with her project team while Greg made them both sandwiches. Gwendoline came up the back stairs and smiled as she watched him sawing through a plate full of thick sliced brown bread.

"I've been watching those children out there all morning," she said. "It's such a pleasure to see the excitement on their faces. They're working so hard, you know."

"Yeah," Greg nodded, licking butter from a thumb. "Freddy and I have decided to give each of them a few hundred quid when they've done. It's not much, but it'll give them some spending cash as a bit of a thank you."

"What a lovely idea," Gwendoline agreed. "I'd also like to chip in if you don't mind," she strolled over to the window looking down into the garden. "They are doing their very best and it's going to save both you and Freddy so much time, especially when you have all these other things to take care of," she turned to look at him. "How did the agent go?"

"Pretty good," Greg nodded. "He didn't say much but seemed happy about things. The next one's due in about a half-hour."

"Best get those down to Freddy, in that case," Gwendoline started back down the stairs. "Or you know she'll forget the time and end up knees-deep in the garden with everyone else."

It was true. Grinning, Greg grabbed the plate and a can of Coke, following Freddy's mum downstairs.

###

The second and third valuation agents were more or less a repeat of the first, although the last one was a bit too effusive for Greg's liking. He knew the apartment was in fine shape and that there was nothing a new buyer could have any real complaints about, but the way the man was gushing about everything from the quality of the floorboards to the 'ambiance' in the bedroom was all a bit much. It was a relief to see him drive away. Making sure all the lights were off and everything was left clean and tidy, he and Freddy left the apartment via the fire-escape stairway as it would take them directly down to the garden and save them having to walk all the way around the to the front entrance gates.

"So, now we wait until they get back to us," Greg stood watching Josua wrangling a baby-sized crane in order to lift the first of the larger and more mature trees into place.

"We do," Freddy answered quickly enough, but he could see her eyes were fixed on the delicate tree-planting operation. Josh was moving four tall lipstick maples into place today, one in each corner of the large rectangular design. These would eventually reach around sixty feet when full-grown, but with the wall height of nearly eighteen feet furthest from the house, they wouldn't look out of place and would also be underplanted. Eight purple-tinted _Malus_ would be arriving first thing in the morning, planned to frame either side of the four maples, along with a dozen dwarfed Parkland Pillar birches whose dark green columnar foliage would punctuate the garden's inner formal landscape at strategic points. Over the following two days, several low garden walls and some of the paving would be done, allowing for the big shrubs to come in next. After this, the remainder of the hard landscaping would be completed, as would the irrigation and the main central and two smaller water features. This would leave a final three days to bring the kitchen garden up to scratch, complete the planting out of the hedging and the remaining flower beds and the final day to check everything and clean up in preparation for signing off the project.

"No doubt we'll have to paint everything purple," Greg spoke normally, watching her face.

"Purple, yes," Freddy nodded slowly, her gaze transfixed at the first of the big trees was lowered into the prepared hole which immediately swarmed with numerous young bodies. She stiffened. "What?" she frowned. " _Purple?"_

Laughing, Greg gave her a push. "Go and play," he said. "I can see you want to."

"You don't mind me abandoning you?"

" _Go_ ," he shooed her away, heading back inside. He knew it would be dark before they spoke again.

In fact, it was almost seven before Freddy crawled in through the kitchen entrance and up the stairs. Her hair was all over the place and there was a great smudge of dried mud down one side of her face. "I'm so out of condition," she groaned as Greg helped her off with her mucky jeans and boots. "I'm going to be as stiff as anything in the morning."

"That's what comes of trying to keep up with a mob of teenagers," Greg couldn't keep the smile from his face as she lowered herself into a steaming bath replete with her own scented bath products. The wave of hot, perfumed air reminded him instantly of the very first time she'd taken him to the massage spa in the Dolphin. Perhaps it was time they submitted themselves once more to the tender mercies of Kella and Tanirt, the Hammam masseuses experts at un-knotting tired muscles.

You should have an early night," he spoke softly, gently sponging her back and neck with spicy soap, loving the feel of sleek, smooth skin beneath his fingertips. He brought the sponge around and up under a breast, slowly circling the tender flesh as he leaned down and nibbled the cleaned skin he'd just washed at her nape. Moving across her chest, he repeated his actions with her other breast. "A nice early night where you can relax your knee and ease all your other tired bits," he slid the sponge down the inverted slide of her stomach to the crease of her thighs, moving everything gently and rhythmically. "Nice and warm and ..." He got no further as a wet hand dragged his face down and soap-scented lips claimed his next words.

###

Day three of the garden project dawned brilliantly with a scarlet sky and the scent of fresh green things in the air. Freddy was already dressed and out in the garden by the time Greg dragged himself out through the kitchen entrance, two steaming mugs of tea in his hands.

"You've got nothing to worry about in the stamina department," he nudged her shoulder to take one of the mugs. "Though I'm not sure I could handle another night like last night for a while," he grinned over his wife's head, staring, as she was, at the tall trees already in place and beginning to define the broad garden space.

"You manage all right for an older man." Freddy sipped her tea and kept her expression neutral, though he could hear the laughter in her words. He had a momentary impulse to respond but was frankly too knackered to do anything about it. It seemed both of them were still in a honeymoon mood and it made everything glorious.

The big gates were already opened and the minivan chugged through and into its usual parking spot by the far wall. The next lot of trees were expected to be delivered within the hour and, once planted, would really begin to lay out the shape of her garden that for so long had been lines on a piece of paper.

By now, everyone was on a first name basis and it was plain to see where individual interests lay. Chloe, Ryan and Jordan loved anything mechanical and had taken personal pride in the irrigation and water lines, as well as cleaning the machinery each night. Jack and Emily were really useful in keeping everyone in the big picture, though Megan's leadership skills had shone through from the first. Mohammad, Max, Christopher and Joe had handled the bulk of the tree-planting thus far and would probably continue to play a big role today. However, it was Aaron and Kyle who seemed the most mature as they had taken on the burden of soil preparation; they hadn't said a lot but their work since day one had been exemplary. Imogen, Owen, Nicole and Edward seemed to know the most about the long list of plants, Imogen going so far as to cautiously question several of her choices, suggesting alternatives that might do even better in the warm microclimate of the walled garden.

Leaning back against Greg's chest, Freddy drank her tea. "I'm so glad we decided to let this project go ahead for Josh and his students," she mused. "I'm getting as much pleasure from their enjoyment in the work as I'd get from doing it myself."

"He seems to have everything very much in hand," Greg watched as the lanky African-born Londoner shepherded his charges into the beginning of their daily tasks. Judging by the high-fives and the number of selfies being taken, all the trainee gardeners were still remarkably keen on doing the job. "He's a good bloke."

"Josh is certainly that," Freddy nodded, her tone thoughtful. "I wonder what he's got lined up for the group once they're finished here."

"You're thinking of something, aren't you?" Greg knew by now when Freddy was concocting a plan of some kind. "You gonna tell me what it is or am I going to be the last one to find out, like always?"

Turning, his wife leaned her chin firmly against his skin-warmed shirt. "I always tell you everything, darling."

Contenting himself with raised eyebrows and a disbelieving scoff, Greg brought an arm around her back and kissed the tip of her nose. "I wonder what those valuations are going to be," he murmured. "It's got to be at least a mil, considering the location and the amount of effort we went to, getting the place looking so good. Watcha reckon, Mrs Lestrade?"

"I agree," Freddy nestled closer. "We're in Westminster and we're offering a very nice flat, though it's true we are putting a few extra clauses onto the leasehold," she frowned again. "Not that we're asking for anything extraordinary, I don't think," she added. "Surely we'd be able to sell it at a million or thereabouts." She sighed. "Having that kind of nest egg in the bank would really be handy in a few years when we're ready to retire."

Greg hugged her tight to him. "Which won't be for a fair old while based on last night's little romp," he laughed affectionately. "You're right though," he rested his chin on her head. "I can't imagine we won't get a reasonable price despite the additional clauses in the leasehold. We'll just have to wait and see, I guess."

"And in the meantime, I have a garden being built," Freddy squeezed his buttock. "I should go and encourage the troops."

"You and your mum are so much alike, you know," Greg grinned happily. "Apart from the gun fetish, of course."

"Too late to run away now, Inspector," Freddy laughed fondly over her shoulder.

###

It was almost midday when Greg's mobile rang, just as he was helping Josh move the minivan out into the street. The formation of the new garden had advanced to such a point that there would be no room for parking now until the gravel-and-paving driveway was complete. Fortunately, there was still sufficient space right in front of the gates for the bus to sit without getting in anyone's way.

Waving as he stepped back towards the house, Greg felt his heart beat harder as he swiped his phone open. Of course, it could be anyone calling him, but he hoped it was one of the agents he'd seen yesterday. It was. Ross Burry from Hamptons.

"Thank you for letting me see your property yesterday, Inspector Lestrade," the man sounded perfectly calm though Greg's heart rate had suddenly rocketed. "Naturally, I'll be confirming this in writing, but I'm placing a value on your upper floor apartment of a little under three million pounds. I trust that will meet with your approval?"


	19. Chapter 19

They all sat at the big table in Gwendoline's kitchen, staring at the three real estate agency letters spread out in front of them.

"Now you know how I felt," the older woman poured fresh tea for them all. "Having that kind of money waved at you is a surprisingly uncomfortable experience."

Freddy poked the stiff sheets of letter-headed paper as if they might bite, her chin resting in the other hand. "I can't believe anyone would be willing to pay so much money for a flat in Pimlico," she said for the umpteenth time. "It just feels too much. I know _I_ wouldn't pay that much."

Sipping his fresh tea, Greg shrugged. "There are obviously people who will," he exhaled slowly. "These guys are the experts." He reached for a biscuit. "If all the agencies are saying the flat is worth nearly three mil, and they all are, then that's what we go for." He nudged his wife with his knee. "Don't forget all the time and money we both put into gutting and rebuilding this entire house," he said mildly, remembering. "Not to mention finding our own private river, or the rats we had to forcibly eject."

"Then they've got more money than sense, I'd say." Freddy heaved a great sigh. "Which one are we going to go for?"

"Whichever one had the best clients," Greg spoke confidently.

It was the fourth day of the garden project and the sound of diggers and other mechanical devises had given way to the less jarring noises of hard landscaping at the students practiced their bricklaying and drive-levelling abilities. By the end of the day, in addition to all the low garden walls being completed, the house would hopefully have a brand new driveway stretching between the gates and the front door, and they'd have decided which company would be selling the top floor apartment for them. But since all three agencies had come back with very similar figures, it wasn't a simple choice.

All three agencies had come up with more or less the same value, in the region of two million, eight hundred thousand pounds. All three letters had also said that, of course, they could not guarantee to realise such a sum in the current market. On top of this, there was the sticky question of agent's fees and commission, with one of the three expecting an eye-watering three per cent of the eventual sale price, which would make a significant though not overwhelming dent in the profits. Additionally, the letter from Hamptons said they already had two clients particularly interested in purchasing in the Pimlico area and who seemed very suited to the special clauses in the leasehold agreement. If Freddy and Greg were to sell to either of these clients, Hamptons would charge only half their usual commission. Given the fact that Hamptons had been the first ones to quote them a figure and seemed amenable to negotiating their fees, then maybe they were the best bet.

Sitting back with folded arms, Greg wrinkled his nose. "I say we have a chat with all of them and haggle," he said. "I'm all for a quick sale but there's no reason we have to give them everything they want," he leaned meaningfully against his wife. "I'll just set you on them."

"Actually," Gwendoline smiled innocently as she replaced her empty cup. "As I appear to be the most recently experienced in this area, I'd be very happy to act on your behalf, if you would like me to do so."

Smiling at Freddy's rising eyebrows, Greg laughed. "Gwennie, you are such a _badass_. I think you'd be a brilliant agent in your own right."

Saying nothing, his mother-in-law contented herself with another perusal of the letters. Whichever way they decided to go, they would be making a handsome profit from the sale of the apartment which would set them up for the rest of their lives. Freddy could continue her research and Greg ... "You could both do a great many things with that sort of money," she said thoughtfully. "Retire, for instance," she looked directly at her son-in-law.

Shaking his head, Greg smiled as he met her gaze. "Not yet for a while," he said. "I just got my DCI, so I'm hardly likely to drop that without giving it a bit of a go, am I?"

Lifting her fingers, Gwendoline dropped the subject, though she knew the seed had been planted. "And you, my dear," she addressed her daughter. "Are you still thinking of returning to your shared Chelsea lab where you have to fight for both space and funding, or would you be content to work in your own laboratory downstairs? With this kind of money, you could have a positively spectacular research facility literally beneath your feet."

"It's tempting," Freddy poked the letters again. "But I've learned not to count my chickens too soon," she nibbled her bottom lip. "I'd also be interested to know who the two clients are that Mr Burry says he's got lined up, as well as why ..." she paused, her gaze flicking to Greg. "Hamptons would be prepared to accept only half their usual fee."

"Maybe the clients have already sold a property through their firm and arranged some similar kind of deal, or perhaps they're family ..." Greg lifted his eyebrows. "It doesn't matter. I vote we let your mother do what she is clearly so expert at doing and we stand back and watch them all cry like babies."

The front doorbell rang and Freddy got up to answer it. It was the tall and perennially serious Mohammad, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his work shirt. "Josh wants you to come have a look at your driveway to see if it's exactly right for you," he grinned unexpectedly. "We hope you like it."

Calling for Greg to join her, Freddy stepped outside to see a beautifully sweeping curve of thickly layered grey-and-white gravel linking the front gates with the front door of the house. There was a perfectly graded circle at her feet of sufficient size for even the largest of cars to turn easily. The entire thing was so neatly done and so carefully finished that it seemed almost too good to use; it would be a shame to mar the smooth perfection of the gravelled surface. As if reading her mind, Mohammad indicated a large clear plastic drum labelled _sealant_.

"Once you're happy with the shape and layout, we'll edge the entire thing with the same pavers we're using in the garden and then spray right across the gravel with this stuff," he said. "It's a plant-based gel that percolates down in between the stones and acts as a sort of porous, flexible glue once it's cured," he said. "Takes about an hour to go off, but once it's set, it keeps the gravel from flying all over the place when you start driving on it."

"Looks fantastic, mate," Greg stood on the wide front steps. Hands on his hips, he gazed around the newly levelled drive, his eyes following the line of the gravelled expanse along to where the other garden works were still in progress or nearly completed. Though Freddy's design did not call for any tall central construction, there were lines of low grey-brick walls capped with the same Portland limestone used for the pavers, with placed left for stone and wooden seating left at various strategic places. The walls were already contrasting amazingly with the planted trees and even he could see the places where Freddy had pointed out she'd be planting hydrangeas and gardenias. Nodding, Greg could see how well everything was already coming together. "Looks really, really good," he saw Josua at the far end of the garden resting on the handle of a long shovel and gave him a thumbs up. " _Looks amazing, Josh_ ," he called, grinning.

The walls and roof for the new double garage backing onto the fenced-off section of the small private garden were already in place, lacking only the automatic roller doors and windows. The new driveway curved around in front of this structure before reaching the front steps of the house in a massive comma-shape. It all looked very professional and quite elegant.

"It's lovely work, Mohammad," Freddy gave the young man a smile. "I know who to call on if I need a driveway put into any of my future garden designs."

In fact, now that she looked carefully, everything was looking incredibly well put together from the far wall over by the kitchen garden, right across to the main double gates at the other end of the enclosing wall.

"Who's that?" Greg asked curiously, his gaze focusing on a person standing by the open entrance.

"No idea. I'll go and see." Freddy observed the well-dressed middle-aged woman standing with her head just inside the gates, clearly having a look around.

"Can I help you?" Smiling, Freddy walked gingerly down the newly-laid gravel drive, reluctant to mar its smooth surface. "I'm sorry; things are a little hectic around here at the moment. We don't always hear people if they call."

"Forgive me," the woman smiled. "I'd heard you were rebuilding the garden and I'm afraid my curiosity got the better of me. Please excuse the intrusion."

Laughing, Freddy shook her head. "Speaking as a gardener myself," he said. "I'd be dying to know what was going if a new garden was being built near me. Do you live close by?"

"I used to," the stranger looked around. "You have a stunning house," she scanned the building from front door to roof and across the garden. "Everything is so beautiful and peaceful."

"It's been a labour of love," Freddy waved at Greg, leaning against the open front door. "I met my husband while working on the refurbishment and we've both thoroughly enjoyed bringing the old girl back to her former glory. And as you can see ..." she waved at the toiling students. "The garden will also be put back to rights very shortly as well."

"It's going to be spectacular; I can see that a great deal of thought and planning has gone into it already. You've done a marvellous job." The woman admired the gleaming stonework and the large trees already framing the garden space.

"It's taken us a solid year of planning and preparation and slog," Freddy smiled a little wearily. "But we're almost done now. The garden is the last big effort and once that's in place ..." Freddy grinned again. "I think we'll be having something of a major house-warming party once we're done."

"It sounds divine and justly deserved," the woman smiled again, stepping back through the gate with a little wave. "I hope everything goes well for you."

 _How odd_. Freddy frowned and smiled as she walked back up to the house. Well, it was to be expected, she supposed. People were naturally curious.

"Mormons?" Greg was still leaning in the doorway, waiting for her.

"Just someone curious about the garden," Freddy patted his tummy as she stepped past him. "I think we should talk to Hamptons about those clients they have lined up before we do anything else," she said. "It might end up saving us a great deal of time."

###

"You're _kidding_." Greg stood with a phone at his ear in the soon-to-be completed kitchen garden, looking at his favourite peach tree, currently being freshly espaliered. Whatever that meant. It looked fairly torturous for the tree, though Freddy had sold him on the idea with the promise of even more peaches than before.

Superintendent Leela Manju hadn't sounded as if she was joking, but maybe he was getting old and losing his touch. "I'm up for a national bravery award for tackling Alex Harper?"

"He was a dangerous criminal on the run, Greg," Manju was being perfectly serious. "He'd already killed one member of the public and was in the process of potentially harming a number of others with a lethal explosive device. You, a DCI, nominally a desk-bound operational manager, on your honeymoon yet, wading in and bringing an escaped convict down with your bare hands. Sounds fairly brave to a significant number of people if you really want to know."

"Jesus," he shook his head, wonderingly. "When?"

"A week on Monday," she said. "Which should be time enough to get back into the paperwork as well as being able to get your dress uniform pressed."

"Assuming it still fits," Greg winced. He disliked wearing the black serge; he'd been a detective for so long now, putting on the uniform felt unnatural at best, especially with all the rank badges and epaulettes, the service medals and shiny buttons. Christ only knew where his white gloves were. "Is attendance compulsory?"

"I'm glad you're taking this seriously, Greg," there was a dry hint of laughter in her voice. "You might want to let your wife know as well. I'm sure Freddy will be delighted to accompany you to the ceremony." Greg winced again. And Gwennie. _Jeez_. He'd never hear the end of it.

He wasn't wrong.

"Oh, my dearest _darling_ _boy_ ," Gwendoline clapped her hands together, beaming. "How absolutely _marvellous_. I shall make sure to let Guy and Louise know; they said they might be in town this coming week."

"Oh, that's right," Freddy turned to her husband. "Louise phoned last night and I totally forgot to tell you. She and Guy are down for the Chelsea show jumping and have invited all of us to dinner while they're in London. I'm sure they'd love to attend the award ceremony."

"I'll see if Reggie and Moira are free as well," Gwendoline looked momentarily calculating. "It never hurts to be seen being seen," she looked at him expressively and went to find her address book.

"Spare me from conniving women!" Shaking his head at the shameless scheming, Greg left the two of them alone to hatch their plans. He needed to see if he could still fit his old Number One dress uniform, assuming he could even find the thing. He knew he hadn't chucked it and had a vague memory of an old suitcase. It was stashed way at the back of the dressing room, almost completely hidden under a folded pile of old jackets he meant to drop off at the nearest homeless shelter. Dragging the banged up leather case into the light, he dropped it on the bed, flicking open two rusting catches.

A musty, dusty smell greeted him. Not damp, just unaired and unworn clothing too long in the dark. Pulling out the various pieces of the once-smart uniform, he laid the dress jacket as flat as he could on the bed. The trousers looked less creased, as did the tie. In a small brown envelope in the middle of everything, he could hear the rattling of his service medals. Tipping the contents into his hand, he remembered the two Queen's Commendation medals, as well as his two long-service awards. With this latest award, he'd have quite the collection. He discovered his white gloves screwed up in a knot in one of the jacket pockets, though they were beyond saving. Looks like a trip to the dry cleaners was on the agenda.

" _Freddyyy!_ " he shouted, knowing she had come upstairs into the kitchen. "Where can I buy white gloves?"

"Before we take your uniform to be cleaned, we'd best be sure it still fits you," his wife was nothing if not pragmatic. "Try it on."

"This might be embarrassing," Greg looked a little uncomfortable. "I've not put this on for at least four years."

"High time you found out, in that case," Freddy settled herself into one of the bedroom chairs, waving at the clothes on the bed. "Strip."

"I'd never have taken you for a voyeur," Greg smiled to himself as he peeled off jeans and t-shirt. "My wife, who likes to watch."

" _Mmm_." Freddy stared quite candidly at her husband's bare chest and shoulders, his muscles toned and defined by months of hard labour and physical exertion. "Looks fairly good from here," she murmured, linking her fingers and relaxing back in the chair.

Shimmying into the formal trousers, Greg was inwardly delighted when they zipped up far more easily than he remembered. There was even a distinct gap between the top button and his stomach, a fact he took care to have Freddy notice as he cinched in the heavy leather belt. Pulling out a clean white shirt, he tucked the excess material into the trousers before drawing on the tailored, silver-buttoned jacket. Everything seemed to fit okay, though the jacket was also a little on the loose side. Tugging the black tie into place, Greg thought he may as well go the whole hog, wiping the peaked black brim of his cap and sliding his hands into the sadly wrinkled white cotton gloves. It appeared he still had all the necessary bits, they just needed a good clean.

"You look magnificent." Freddy went to the bedroom door which she closed. "Though it would look better if the whole thing was properly tailored, and you need additional stars on your epaulettes for your new rank," she observed. "Your buttons need a damn good polish too," she brushed close to him. "I've never seen you in your uniform before," she lidded her eyes. "It gives me the strangest urge," she whispered, leaning against his chest, her fingers already reaching to undo his tie.

###

By the end of the following day, the major shrubs were all in place; the hydrangeas, the gardenias, buddleias and lilacs. The remaining spaces would be filled with smaller perennials: the lavenders, the sedums, salvias and phlox. The last of the irrigation drip-lines were already in place and the low limestone walls neatly capped and finished. The garden, though still only half-planted, already looked as if it had been this way for years. The men had come to install the large automatic doors on the new garage building tucked back at the side of the house and the new drive had settled and firmed perfectly so that even the heavy vehicles carrying the long steel doors left scarcely any impression in the clean gravel.

Hamptons Estate Agents had arranged to borrow the front door key to the top flat to show it specifically to two nominated clients, even though the choice of agency had not yet been formalised. It was while Freddy was working out the best time to have an open day in the apartment that she had the brainwave.

"The garden will be as completed as Josh and everyone can make it by the end of the week." Freddy was getting undressed for bed after another day up to her knees in plants, her skin a golden glow with a bridge of darker freckles across her nose. Greg thought she looked adorable and reminded himself to tell her. "And if everyone we know if going to be in town to attend your award ceremony on the following Monday afternoon ..."

"Yeah?" in bed with a book, Greg was enjoying the last hours of relaxation before returning to work the following morning. "You sound as though you're planning something."

"I am," yawning; Freddy came and sat on the end of the bed. "If everyone we know is in London and the garden's going to be relatively finished by next weekend, why don't we have the house warming party on Monday evening? We have a whole week to get things organised and the weather looks to be nice until the end of the month, so why not?"

Putting down his book, Greg thought for a minute. Why not indeed? "You realise I'm going to be up to my ears in paperwork this whole week?" he said. "Meaning I'm not going to be much help getting things organised."

"Oh, I shall simply let mummy get in touch with all her contacts at the Dolphin," she looked even more pleased with the idea. "As it'll be an evening in the garden, we shall go for an informal buffet affair which will be terribly easy to have catered. I know several places that organise parties for the big houses outside of town; it should be the easiest thing to arrange for a little party here."

"At such short notice?" Greg frowned. "Don't these places need something like three months run-up time at least?"

"For a big formal bash, then yes, of course," Freddy nodded, rubbing her eyes. "But we're not going to be having more than fifty or sixty people, which is very small potatoes for the companies I'm thinking of. I'll make some phone calls in the morning after I've spoken with mummy."

Not more than fifty or sixty people? It sounded like a pretty big deal to Greg. However, he acknowledged he wasn't the authority in these things, and Gwennie could probably organise a picnic on the Moon if she needed to.

Waiting until she crawled into bed beside him, Greg wanted to know who she was thinking of inviting, as he'd like a few of the crowd from work as well and of course, they'd have to invite John Watson and Sherlock, and Mike Stamford who really had kicked all of this off when he'd introduced them to each other almost a year before. Turning to see if Freddy were listening, Greg stopped. Eyes closed, his wife was fast asleep in the cool white linen sheets, her fingers already relaxing open against her pillow.

"No matter," he murmured fondly. "We can talk tomorrow."

###

It was hard to remember what the garden had been like just over a week before. Josua and his volunteer horticulturalists had worked the proverbial miracle and Freddy was full of admiration for everything that had been completed so far. Not only had they created the garden exactly according to her plan and specifications but they'd taken all the backache out of the work and hadn't minded in the least when Freddy simply wanted to watch everything in action, loath to interrupt their increasingly expert activities.

Deciding that even though there had been no expectation of payment of any kind, she and Greg would give each student four hundred pounds and with her mother insisting on chipping in with a further hundred each, Freddy had also arranged for each student to be given a one-year membership in the Apothecary Garden Association, easily worth another hundred pounds. On top of this, she had written out an individual letter for each student as a reference, praising their knowledge and project management skills, as well as their incredible work ethos and friendly co-operation. Greg had told Josh what they were doing but so far, none of them had said anything to the students, deciding to invite them to the house warming party on the evening of the following Monday. Without fail, each student had accepted the invitation, immediately sparking off a number of serious discussions concerning who they were going to invite as a guest and what would be worn.

Greg had been back at his desk all week, mostly dealing with the avalanche of paperwork from the ongoing search and recovery operation for two remaining escaped criminals. There was a good lead that the individuals in question had been spotted boarding one of the Brittany ferries leaving Plymouth, bound for Roscoff. Both the French _Nationale_ and Interpol had been brought into the search so it was really just a matter of time now. All the other escapees, apart from Alex Harper, had once more been embraced by the prison system. As he'd predicted, Greg had come home late every night so far and he'd dropped into bed and sleep almost as soon as he'd eaten. This evening though, he arrived not long after six and in a reasonably alert state, so Freddy at last had an opportunity to raise an unexpected situation with him.

"It's this," she passed an open letter across the dinner table. "It's from Hunters solicitors, the same ones Guy told us about. They've followed up on the information in the folder given them by the police from the car Alex stole. Apparently their letterhead was on the first document inside and one of your lot sent it through to them once it had been dismissed as useful evidence. And now they've sent me this letter," Freddy sipped a glass of iced water. "It looks fairly watertight, I'm afraid."

Taking a deep breath, Greg read through the first page of a thickly-sheaved document, suggesting the top page was merely a summary. He was right.

"So it's finally reached the stage of legality then?" he flicked the page over, scanning briefly through the rest of the attached sheets.

"It seems so," she watched his expression.

Looking up from his reading, Greg caught the concealed edge of anxiety in her eyes and smiled comfortingly. "We've been all through this," he said gently, taking her hand in his. "It's up to you to move this forward if that's what you want to do. You know you have my complete support, whatever way you decide to go."

Taking the letter back, Freddy read the middle paragraph again. _There is now nothing to challenge your immediate claim to the title of Countess of Apley, together with any and all properties, chattels personal and chattels real, pertaining to that title_. _All necessary documentation is in hand and requires only your approval for us to instigate proceedings with the Crown Office in the House of Lords._ _I await your decision as to the progression of your claim and may be reached on ..._

Inhaling sharply, Freddy thought of her mother and how much easier life might have been for all of them as children if her father had pursued his rightful claim to its ultimate conclusion before he died. Even if the title were reclaimed, there was no compulsion to use it in any way, but she'd never know what it might mean if she repeated her father's lack of action. As the thought of her childhood slid through her mind, she knew what she was going to do.

"Then I shall," she said, resting her hand across Greg's fingers. "If I don't at least find out what it could mean for us, I'll always wonder if I made the right decision. I'll let mummy know as well, as this affects her too and it might upset her when she learns the whole truth. Do you want to be there when I tell her about all of this?"

"Nah," Greg shook his head. "It's a family thing between you and your mum. You go on down and tell her in whatever way makes the most sense and I'll pop down later and make some tea. How's that sound?"

"It sounds like you're a wonderful darling man. I'll give you a shout when we're ready."

Walking into their bedroom when Freddy had gone downstairs, Greg did the one last thing he needed to do to bring his newly spruced up dress uniform to its final parade polish. Digging around in his sock drawer, he found the old brown envelope and tipped the medals into the palm of one hand. With the tip of his tongue between his teeth, he carefully slid the silver-plated steel pins at the back until all four of the medals were perfectly aligned and in their correct order. The shiny metal and bright coloured ribbons seemed strange, even now. He had no idea what the new one would be, but he thought Freddy would be pleased. He smiled as he imagined Gwennie's face. His cap had been brushed and shined and his silver buttons shimmered like new. Freddy had even insisted on buying him a fancy new white shirt and black silk tie. Greg smiled again and wondered how she was getting on downstairs. It wasn't an easy thing to have to tell your mum she could have been a proper Lady. Mind you, Gwennie had always been that, title or no.

His phone buzzed in his pocket as he flicked a microscopic speck of fluff from his uniform jacket. Checking, he saw Freddy had texted a simple message. _Come down_. He was curious as to how Gwennie had taken the news. Would she be upset?

He needn't have worried.

" _Darling!_ We've just been having the most incredible _discussion_ ," Gwendoline waved a collection of champagne glasses in the air. "Freddy said you'd make tea, which of course is simply too pedestrian for such wonderful news! Can you manage, sweetheart, or should your husband do that for you?" The last was directed at her daughter, wrestling with a bottle of bubbly.

"I learned to handle champagne long before I met Greg, Mother," Freddy rolled her eyes at her husband who took the hint and sat down at the kitchen table. It seemed Gwennie had taken the news pretty well.

"So, everything's good then, is it?" Greg looked between mother and daughter, pleased that Freddy's concern had been unfounded.

"Everything makes a damn sight more sense now that I know what all these solicitor's letters have been about," Gwendoline plonked herself down, watching her eldest child uncork the Moët in expert fashion. "Though I do wish Freddy's father had told me at the time; it could have saved us all a great deal of heartache and worry."

"I expect Daddy meant to tell you, but you know how he always got distracted," Freddy poured three flutes of the fizzy wine. "To the future?" she smiled between her mother and her husband, tentatively offering the first toast.

"The glorious, wonderful future," Gwendoline beamed at both of them, her elated expression saying far more than words.

"To the love of my life," Greg's smile was only for Freddy, as he watched a faint blush tint her cheeks. "And the next Countess of Apley."


	20. Monday, 20th August

"In preventing this explosive device from being thrown into a garden full of young people within seconds of its detonation, DCI Lestrade displayed outstanding gallantry, devotion to duty and a complete disregard for his personal safety. Therefore, for conspicuous bravery in the face of personal danger, demonstrating concern only for the safety of the general public and his fellow officers and without any thought of his own welfare, the Queen's Gallantry Medal is awarded to Detective Chief Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

Taking a deep breath, Greg stood from his seat at the rear of the podium and tugged his immaculate jacket straight. Even though this was the third medal he'd earned for valorous conduct, the QGM was by far the most prestigious. Feeling a tingle of nerves in his stomach, he kept his expression neutral and walked smartly to the front of the stage in the Yard's new Ground Floor auditorium as applause began to ring out, mounting in decibels as he paused to glance out across so many known faces. Freddy, Gwendoline and Aunty Jean were all in the front row, an identical bright-eyed look of admiration and pride written large across their faces. Giving them a self-effacing smile, he turned to meet the gaze of the Police Commissioner.

"Well done, DCI Lestrade." Taking care not to stab the medal in as he pinned it to Greg's chest, the Commissioner smiled. "I've been hearing some very good things about you, and not just from inside the Yard." Shaking Greg's hand, the older man stepped back, snapping off a text-book salute. Greg's reflexes, obviously remembering their Hendon College days so many years before, responded instantly in a similar fashion, earning him a brief nod of approval from the Met's most senior officer. Turning to face the audience, Greg smiled again before returning to his seat beside the two other officers who'd been up for lesser awards. There was supposed to be a light buffet lunch for guests but it was more a public relations thing than a proper lunch. Besides, there was the party tonight and he _really_ wanted to get out of the heavy uniform.

As the ceremony was formally closed and people began to drift from their seats over to the luncheon tables at the rear of the auditorium, Greg found himself suddenly wrapped in a pair of female arms.

"You look utterly edible, darling." Freddy planted a light kiss on his lips as she let him go. "In that uniform, you are the most handsome man in the entire police force."

"Quite true, love," Greg laughed, relaxing now the ordeal was finished, leaning over to give both Jean and Gwendoline a kiss on the cheek. "Though don't say that to anyone here or I'll have to live with their sad and endless envy until I retire."

"Or until you get kicked upstairs again, mate," passing just beyond the small family group, Duncan Brimacombe dragged Greg into a brief, beefy hug. "You scrubbed up well," he added, stepping back to admire Greg's outfit and new award. "You'll need your own jewellery box soon," he glanced at the shiny medallion.

"Congrats, Guv." Sally Donovan edged closer and kissed his cheek. "You seem to be flavour of the month right now."

"It's all thanks to the women in my life," Greg's smile was wide and genuine. Now that the event was over, he could shake a few hands, smile for a few pictures and then nick off home to help Josh's kids put up the fairy lights for the party. "Uh oh," he was being waved at across the room where small groups of people were being assembled for the photographs. "Come on you three," he began herding the women towards the photographer. "If you ever want to be in a photo with me in uniform, this is your last chance as I am never doing this again."

As soon as they'd all been captured for posterity, Gwendoline and Aunty Jean went off to find a cup of tea while Freddy stayed, holding his hand. "You are rather wonderful, you know," her soft laughter was approving. "And everyone here knows it. Everyone is very happy for you."

"More like it's because half of these buggers are coming round to our place to night and want to be sure of getting their free beer,"

"And a goodly reason that would be! _Congratulations_ , Chief Inspector!"

Swinging around to the voice at his shoulder, Greg found his hand being firmly shaken by Guy, Duke of Roxburghe, seconds before he was enveloped in a cloud of expensive perfume as Louise Innes-Ker kissed his cheek.

"Guy! _Louise!"_ Freddy's delight was unaffected. Though the Innes-Kers had been invited, Louise hadn't been sure they'd be able to make the award ceremony in time. "How marvellous that you could come. Isn't Greg indecently attractive in his uniform?"

Rolling his eyes at Guy over the women's heads, Greg endured the compliments with a stoic smile.

"Could have done with a piper or two." Guy criticised mildly. "Put a bit more pomp into the occasion."

"And where would these southerners find a good piper in London?" Louise laughed and patted her husband's arm. "We should have brought Alistair down with us," she said. "Though Moira would have insisted on coming with him for the shops."

"Someone taking my wife's name in vain?" The arrival of a new voice interrupted the conversation as Reggie Jarsdel clapped Greg on the shoulder. "Congratulations, old man," he smiled broadly. "Bringing the Force into repute, I see."

"Ah, some introductions are due," Freddy looked between the Duke of Roxburghe and the Chief Constable of Hertfordshire. While his wife was introducing Reggie Jarsdel to the Innes-Kers, Greg looked around to find Moira Jarsdel who was, of course, standing with Gwennie and Jean. Catching Jean's eye, he waved, beckoning the women over. They may as well get all the introductions out of the way in one go.

###

"Come on you lot, let's see a bit of muscle. _Heave_."

Everything was done, except getting this last open tent erected at the edge of the gravel drive. A small task to be sure, in comparison with what had already been done, but this was a critical job. The small marquee would be the site of the open bar for the party tonight and the last thing that needed doing before the catering company arrived to set everything up. Three of Josh's more muscular students had been roped in to help erect the heavy white canvas structure.

When they heard the party would involve garden lights and lanterns and things in _their_ newly formed garden, it had been impossible for Josh to stop the students helping to stage things for the party, though he could completely understand their desire for the garden, new though it was, to be seen at its very best advantage. They'd spent the entire afternoon setting up floral arrangements and string after string of tiny white bud-lights, spiralling the tall pencil pines in the middle of the garden, surrounding the lush shrubs with huge loops of cable and all around the big gates, as well fastening swags of the things from a number of temporary arches rigged up for exactly that purpose. There were also several dozen enormous white paper Japanese lanterns to affix to tall black bamboo rods at the edge of the drive and by the seats and stone benches in the garden itself. It looked good but the final effect was impossible to see in the sunshine.

Josh had agreed to take his charges home by six, giving them time to get cleaned up and dropped back off at the Pimlico house for seven-thirty by whatever means they and their guests preferred. Because of the lack of street parking and the fact that alcohol was definitely on the menu, most were either grabbing a taxi or being chauffeured by obliging parents.

Dusting off his hands, Greg checked his watch. The caterers would be arriving any minute and he looked around to see if everything they'd requested had been arranged. The drive was clear from the gates all the way up to the bar-marquee, which was on level ground. There was a new brass garden tap at the side of the house not more than a dozen feet away from where the bar would stand, if fresh running water was needed. Gwendoline's big ground-floor kitchen had been commandeered, a fact that delighted the older woman, as if the party was of her own making. Entirely happy to have his highly competent mother-in-law sort things out, Greg smiled cheerfully as he waved the big caterer's van in through the double gates, followed by a couple on a motorbike.

There were to be six people from the catering firm looking after the party. One would be tending the bar at all times, while two would be preparing and producing food from the numerous large refrigerated containers being carried into the ground floor kitchen under Gwendoline's eagle eye. The remaining three would act as waiters, moving among the gathered guests with trays of finger food and drinks. It was a firm Freddy had often seen brought in by the wealthy owners of the gardens she helped design and create and she knew they were worth their pay. All china and glassware was being brought in, along with the food and the supplies for the bar. When they left, they'd clear up and take everything away with them so that there was really nothing left for anyone to do. This was fine with Greg, and Gwendoline was in her absolute element.

After showing the caterers where everything was and introducing them to Gwennie who was already in her glad-rags, Greg took a quick last look around the garden now that Josh had carted his trainee gardeners away, before he went looking for Freddy. He'd assumed he would have needed to drag her bodily from her precious garden but found her, surprisingly, in front of her dressing table, doing her makeup with rather more than her usual care.

"You okay, love?" he asked, hauling his sweaty t-shirt over his head, enroute to the bathroom.

"Perfectly fine, darling," Freddy opened her eyes wide as she stroked on some dark mascara. "I'll be ready in a minute."

"Yeah, best not keep our guests waiting," Greg stepped into the walk-in shower and turned the pressure up until the water pounded his skin with needles, cleaning and refreshing simultaneously. It had been a long and eventful day already and he was longing to simply wind down a bit, have a few beers and amaze his friends with Freddy's garden.

She was still at her dressing table when he emerged, towelling his hair dry. "What's this?" he stopped at the end of their bed, next to several folded items of clothing and a fat white solicitor's envelope laid on the top.

"The first of three special treats for you for this evening, darling," Freddy stood and lifted up a pure white linen shirt and lightweight sand-coloured blazer. "I know you don't have a great deal of time to go shopping ..."

"You mean you know I _hate_ going shopping," Greg grinned suddenly, taking the clothing from her fingers. Both the shirt and the sand-coloured jacket were superbly made and he didn't need to ask if they were bespoke. A lighter pair of linen trousers completed the outfit. It was all very unfussy and yet probably the most expensive casual clothing he'd ever had. It felt so light and smooth. "You shouldn't have," he murmured, digging out clean underwear.

"I wanted you to feel comfortable and special for this exceptional evening, my love." Freddy hugged him around his middle.

"You're spoiling me rotten," Greg slipped into the shirt. As he expected, it fitted him perfectly, loose enough to be casual and comfortable but clearly made for his size and shape. The linen trousers were partly silk-lined and so light he felt almost indecent sliding into them. They felt marvellous against his skin. Finally, the darker linen jacket, also lined in the same fawn silk as the trousers. Everything was so light and comfortable that it hardly felt he was wearing anything. "This is bloody wonderful stuff," he admired the feel and the cut of the jacket, as the white of the shirt set off the tan he'd started in Scotland and finished while working in the garden the last few days.

Whirling his wife into a sudden waltz around the bedroom, Greg felt everything in his life had been preparation for this present moment. All his struggles and sadness were fading further and further into the past; there was too much present to hold onto anything bad.

"Okay, Fairy Godmother," he poked the big envelope. "What's in here?" In his curious fingers, it opened to reveal a much-folded legal document. Freddy sat down on the bed.

"I don't suppose you remember me telling you when we started all this that for me to keep the house and garden, I had to live in it for a year afterwards before I was legally able to sell it?" in his arms, she smiled up at him. "It's been a full year since I began the process and this was signed off by the old Kerr family trust only yesterday. It's your second treat," she added, pointing to the date on the last page. "See?"

The document was the deed to the Pimlico house, but instead of there being only Freddy's name; Greg saw that he was listed as full co-owner of the property. His throat dried. "You don't have to do this, sweetheart," he frowned. "It's your house."

"Our house. It's _our_ house and we'll do everything together from now on," Freddy stood, hugging him tight again. "As your official fairy godmother, I won't have it any other way."

Laying his forehead against hers, Greg was momentarily overwhelmed. This really was like a fairy-tale come true. "All I wanted was a nice place to live," he whispered against her. "And look what you've given me," his voice was husky. "Everything," he spoke so softly she hardly heard. "You've given me everything I ever dreamed of."

The sound of the caterer's voices coming in through the open bedroom windows intruded on their closeness. "We need to go and greet our guests," Freddy clung to him, unwilling to be the one to break the moment.

"Yeah, we should." Greg kept his arms tight around his wife.

"Or we can just let mummy take care of them," Freddy laughed quietly.

"Nah, we really can't expect your mum to do everything, can we?" Greg wiped an eye with the side of one hand. "Come on. If you're ready for the madness, then so am I."

###

The sky was just darkening into the purple-blue shade that heralds true dusk when the first taxi stopped outside the gates. The garden lights had been switched on and Greg and Freddy were lighting the Japanese lanterns whose little candles would burn for hours in the tranquil evening. Faint strains of soft bluesy-jazz echoed around the walled garden.

Guy and Louise Innes-Ker walked up the new drive, smiling.

"Unfashionably early, darlings, we know," the duchess kissed them both, laughing and waving when she saw Gwendoline coming out of the house to greet the early birds. "But we simply couldn't wait to see the house and garden and, my God, you've worked wonders with the old girl."

One of the waiters approached with a round silver tray on which stood several flutes of champagne. Freddy asked for a soda water and ice. "Pacing myself," she smiled at Greg's questioning eyebrows.

Asking and answering all sorts of technical questions, Greg and Guy walked slowly around the house, while Freddy led Louise around some of her favourite parts of the garden including showing her the four white stone tree carvings, now holding pride of place on low pedestals in the centre of the garden design. The sound of multiple new voices entering the gates called them back to the drinks tent as both Greg and Freddy acknowledged the newcomers with smiles and open arms. While Greg made an effort to welcome all his Yard friends and colleagues, Freddy took it upon herself to greet everyone else. The Jarsdels arrived and were promised a personal tour of the house and garden once things had calmed down a little. Several of Gwendoline's old cronies arrived together in an antique Rolls Royce, chauffeured by an even more ancient driver. She was just catching her breath as the spate of newly arriving guests slowed to a trickle, when she caught sight of the same strange woman she'd spoken with the week before. A gate-crasher?

"Please forgive me once again," the woman's cautious expression was illuminated by the soft yellow glow of the party lights. "But I'm flying to Zurich first thing in the morning and I wondered if I might possibly have a few minutes of your time before I go?"

Pausing awkwardly, Freddy looked over her shoulder at the gentle milling of her guests.

"I realise my timing is abominable," seeing Freddy's reluctance the woman spoke quickly. "But it's in regard to this, you see." Looking down at the paper the woman held in her hand, all Freddy could make out was the letterhead: _Hamptons Real Estate_.

"Perhaps you'd better come in." Standing back, Freddy smiled curiously, beckoning the unexpected guest into the garden.

###

Leela Manju and Sally Donovan turned up almost at the same time. Sally's partner for the evening looked like a university professor, while the Superintendent came alone. All three accepted champagne and stared at the spreading vastness of the garden in the glow of the fairy lights. Taking her friend's hand, Sally went off to mingle with the other Yarders, leaving Greg alone with his boss.

"What a fabulous place you have here," Manju seemed much more relaxed out of uniform, wearing a _chic_ cocktail dress. "Your hidden depths are becoming more intriguing by the day, Greg," she smiled over the rim of her glass.

"Hidden depths?" Greg glanced around to see that everyone was being served drinks and nobody was left standing by the gate. "Not sure I understand, Ma'am."

"Oh please," Manju tilted her head. "We're off-duty, it's Leela."

"Leela," Greg sipped his champagne. "Still not sure what you mean."

"A duke?" Manju sounded more than curious. "The Chief Constable of Hertfordshire? Ex-Olympians? A stately house in the middle of London?" She smiled, her eyebrows rising. "Been hiding your light under a bushel, eh? Not wanting to use social clout to influence your promotion chances?" Greg's Superintendent nodded knowingly. "But we've found you out, I'm afraid."

"We?" unclear what page she was on, but positive it was different to his, Greg waited on her next words with a horrible uncertainty.

"The Chief Commissioner," Manju knocked back the last of her drink. "He gave me quite a ticking-off for not keeping him apprised of the social luminary in our midst."

Handing her another flute of champagne from a passing tray, Greg shook his head. "It's not like that at all," he said, wondering how he could explain without making things worse.

"It looked very much like that to the Commissioner," Manju smiled at him again. "But not to worry. We both understand completely, and your reticence is quite admirable, considering how long you were a DI. Though things might well change now."

"It already has," Greg felt he was on firmer ground. "Or did you forget you made me a DCI a little while ago?"

" _Mmm_ ," Manju nodded. "As I said, things might well change," she paused, looking him straight in the eye. "Can't keep our best and brightest behind the scenes now, can we?"

"But it's really all to do with my wife," Greg shook his head, not liking what he thought he was hearing. "Freddy's the one with all the connections, not me."

"And your wife is connected socially to the Duke of Roxburghe, is she?" the Superintendent gazed around at the rising glow of the garden lights in the darkening sky.

 _Oh crap_. Greg realised he'd snookered himself well and truly. Whatever he said, he was doomed. "Yeeesss," he looked at Manju awkwardly. "She's, _er_ ... Freddy's probably ... actually, a Countess."

Greg thought it was a testament to Manju's experience at dealing with the unexpected that she didn't choke on her champagne, though she did cough. Just a little.

"Your wife's a countess?"

" _Darling!_ Do excuse my appalling bad manners for interrupting like this, but before I forget, Guy asked me to say we expect you back at Floors for the Braemar Games on the First of September. _Do_ promise you'll come; both Charles and William will be there, and the Queen, of course, and you simply _have_ to tell them your salmon-catching story." Louise Innes-Ker planted another kiss on his cheek and floated away as quickly as she'd arrived. Manju was silent but her wide-eyed look spoke volumes.

"That's, _ah_ , that's Louise," Greg smiled distractedly. "She's a duchess."

"Sharing fishing stories with royals now? Hidden depths, DCI Lestrade, hidden depths." Manju held his eyes with her own as she sipped her wine. " _Very_ deep. And you really do have the most interesting guests this evening."

Hoping his Superintendent was not about to mention the Jarsdels, Greg turned quickly, following Manju's gaze and saw Freddy speaking with a woman he couldn't remember meeting, though that hardly made a difference with all the half-recognised faces around him this evening.

"Dame Laurie Edevane," Manju blinked slowly in surprise. "I haven't seen her since she retired from the bench last year."

"The bench?" Greg started to feel hopelessly confused again.

"The Honourable Mrs Justice Edevane?" Leela Manju raised her eyebrows. "You don't recognise your own guest? One of the most famous High Court judges of the last twenty years?"

"Ah," Greg felt totally flummoxed. "So many people at parties, you know how it is," he smiled diplomatically. He really would need to pay more attention to Freddy's invitation lists in the future.

"I'd say you've got a royal flush here tonight," Manju nodded thoughtfully. "The Commissioner _will_ be interested," she laughed briefly. "Talk about perfect timing."

"Timing?"

"Don't breathe a word, but I'm retiring," speaking quietly, the Superintendent finished her drink. "We were considering bringing someone down from Birmingham or Leeds, but I'm positive the Commissioner would prefer to promote from within if he can."

" _Retiring?_ " It was Greg's turn to half-choke.

"Well I am nearly sixty," Leela Manju laughed delightedly at his incredulous expression. "I'll have to have a little chat with Chief Superintendent Samuels about you tomorrow and then he can take it upstairs and we shall see."

 _His boss was retiring and she was going to put his name forward as a replacement?_ _He'd barely got used to handling a DCI's paperwork. There was no way in hell he'd be up for anything more for at least, oh, another twenty years or so._ Wishing he could end this very strange and frankly alarming conversation, Greg watched hopefully as his wife and the mysterious Mrs Justice Edevane approached.

"Good evening, Superintendent Manju," Freddy smiled graciously. "I'm so pleased you were able to join the party this evening," she smiled, turning slightly to the older woman at her side. "Greg, may I introduce you to Lady Edevane, whom I'm sure you know from her long service in the British judiciary."

"Very pleased to meet you, Lady Edevane," Greg felt his smile growing ever so slightly manic. His life was becoming more complicated by the second.

"Greg has said so many fascinating things about you, Superintendent. Perhaps you could tell me more about being a senior officer in the Met?" Freddy smiled charmingly at Leela Manju. "I do try to keep up with my husband's career, but I'm sure he doesn't tell me everything. Do you know Sir Reginald Jarsdel and his wife, Moira? Such lovely people. Here, please do have some more champagne ..."

In moments, Greg found himself alone with Mrs Justice Edevane. Unsure what to say, he wracked his brains, trying to think of something intelligent.

"Don't worry, Chief Inspector," the woman laughed, patting his arm. "Your good wife has told me everything but wanted you and I to speak before we went any further with the negotiations."

"I'm sorry," Greg screwed up his eyes in total confusion. "Negotiations?"

"Yes. I do realise this is all a little sudden, but I'd like to purchase the top floor apartment in this glorious house of yours," she said, looking around and admiring the lights in the surrounding trees. "It's perfectly beautiful here and I really do prefer living in London. I've bought and sold several properties through Hamptons in the last few years and they know what I was looking for. I do hope you don't mind my intrusion this evening?"

"It's no problem at all, Lady, _er_ , Mrs Justice Edevane, ah …"

"My friends call me Laurie," the woman smiled. "I'm flying overseas in the morning to settle several financial matters pertaining to my late husband. If you're willing, I'd like to place a deposit on the apartment until my solicitor can arrange the property conveyance. Would five-hundred thousand be acceptable?"

 _Half-a-mil_. Instantly, Greg's mind flashed back an entire year when he'd just divorced and had precisely that amount burning a hole in his bank account, yet he'd been unable to find anywhere he'd wanted to live. And then he'd met up with Mike Stamford at Bart's and his entire life had changed. And was still changing by the sounds of things.

"You're right," he smiled. "This is a very special house," he felt slightly wistful, and glad his face was in shadow. "A great deal of love has gone into the place in the last year," he paused, turning to stare at the magnificent building of which he was now legally, a joint-owner. He went a little giddy at the thought. "If you're happy with the purchase conditions and if Freddy is happy for you to live upstairs, I'm happy too. I have enormous faith in my wife's instincts."

"Then you're a wise man and I'm thrilled. I'll have my solicitors contact your solicitors to settle the arrangements later in the week. I'd love to stay and chat, but I simply have to be away at the crack of dawn." Smiling like a bird, Mrs Justice Edevane shook his hand before heading back to the big gates.

Standing alone in the glow of the fairy lights, Greg was bemused. He should go talk to the guests; he shouldn't expect Freddy and her mum to do everything. Turning, he saw Gwendoline chatting merrily to John Watson, which suggested that Sherlock was somewhere nearby.

"Fantastic place you've ended up with, mate," John grinned as Greg approached. "I'm afraid Sherlock abducted your wife when he heard she was building a fully-fledged laboratory in the basement," the blond man shook his head. "Bloody mental the both of them."

Shrugging philosophically, Greg intercepted a half-pint of lager from a passing tray of drinks. "Looks like we might have sold the top flat as well," he spoke nonchalantly. "For a very tasty amount," he paused. "I wonder why she didn't haggle?"

"Who didn't haggle?" it was John's turn to look confused.

"The potential buyer. Didn't say anything about haggling, just wanted to drop off a half-mil as a deposit …"

"Suggesting that the full sale price will realise a very healthy sum. Well done, Inspector." Sherlock appeared out of nowhere, a champagne flute in his long fingers.

" _Chief_ Inspector," Freddy was right behind him, as she turned to her husband. "I may have agreed to let Sherlock use my lab facilities occasionally," she said, frowning. "Though for the life of me, I can't work out exactly how I was persuaded."

Arching his eyebrows, Sherlock turned to his colleague. "Did you know John, there's an access to the underground Westbourne River in the basement?" Striking a reflective pose, Sherlock pondered the ramifications of that information.

"And don't even _think_ of doing anything with that piece of news," Greg knew the younger Holmes of old. Best to lay down the law right from the get-go.

"And here we all are again!" Michael Stamford joined the little group with a happy smile and a large glass of beer. "Bit of a difference since the first time we came through those gates, eh?"

"Yeah, and it's been almost a complete year since I was first here," Greg grinned happily. So many things had taken place in that time. _So much had changed_. So many unexpected complexities.

He never knew how his life had suddenly become so complicated. Only a year before, he had been an average, run-of-the mill divorcé; unmarried, unloved, unhappy but not completely broke. And now ... well, so much had happened since then, and it had all started with Mike Stamford. The guy needed to take some responsibility for his actions. About to let him have a piece of his mind, Greg paused as Freddy slid a hand under his elbow.

"I need to borrow you for a minute. Back in a tick," she smiled engagingly at Mike, John and Sherlock while tugging Greg into the shadows of the garden.

"You stay right there," lifting a warning finger, Greg gave Mike his fiercest copper's stare. "I've got several bones to pick with you."

"What's up?" Greg waited until he and Freddy were out of earshot from the rest of the party. "Don't tell me someone else has arrived offering to buy the top floor?"

Sliding her arms around his waist, his wife smiled. "I haven't given you your third treat yet," she murmured. "Thought you might appreciate it about now."

"Out here? In public?" Greg teased, his imagination running rampant.

Freddy held him tighter, her smile widening as she savoured the moment. "I'm pregnant."

###

**The End**


End file.
